


all the more reason for laughing (and crying)

by devereauxing



Series: waves of alternatives [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, F/M, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Mild Language, Possibly Unrequited Love, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Slurs, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2019-09-28 01:13:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 85,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17173043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devereauxing/pseuds/devereauxing
Summary: in which freddie and roger are ridiculously codependent, brian is hopelessly in love, and john has made potentially the worst (best) desperate choice of his life in snapping up the first offer of a flat following a sudden eviction.(previously "naturally")





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i now have a (new and not ten years old) tumblr, you should say [hi](https://candidroger.tumblr.com/)

Brian sat in awkward silence on the opposite end of the ratty, corduroy patched sofa from John. John appeared by all accounts to be completely immersed in the goings on of the television set on which a middle aged American woman was shouting at her heavily pregnant teenage daughter about something or other to do with a heavy metal concert.

“You’re being so unfair,” the daughter exclaimed, throwing an open carton of orange juice across the room at the mother. The older of the two, now drenched comically in the beverage, screamed.

John laughed, a sound muffled somewhat by the overly long sleeves of his jumper which he had pressed over his face.

“I should be allowed to go,” the pregnant teen continued as the camera panned, shakily, back to her mother who was now inexplicably dry despite the supposed ‘reality’ component of the show. “All my friends are going.”

“All your friends aren’t seven months pregnant!” John mimicked along with the woman on screen, in perfect time. Brian side eyed him.

John, his head thrown back as he laughed, caught his look and blushed. His arms, which had fallen to his side as he’d gotten swept up in the drama of the silver screen, rose once more to cover his mouth again. Inexplicably, Brian felt guilty.

“You, uh,” he started, clearing his throat and nodding toward the telly. He tried not to sound judgemental as he said, “You really like this stuff, huh?”

John shrugged.

“You must, I mean,” Brian continued valiantly, hiding a wince as the women on the screen began screeching at each other anew. Their new bone of contention was the orange juice incident. The mother was once again drenched. “You’ve seen this one before?”

John remained silent.

Brian sighed, and ruffled the back of his hair roughly. Giving the enterprise up as a lost cause, he went to stand. You could drag the horse to water, but you couldn’t make it drink; and frankly, after a good twenty minutes of this god awful claptrap Brian thought that it might perhaps be a mercy if he pretended this attempt at socialisation with John had never occurred. For both their sakes.

“I like it when they turn out to be good parents,” John said timidly. Brian paused, hands still on his knees where he’d been prepared to propel himself upward and out of the horrendously stifled atmosphere of the living room. “It doesn’t happen every episode, and sometimes they’re right prats who in all honestly probably shouldn’t be having kids ever let alone as teenagers, y’know? But sometimes they get their shit together and do the very best they can and you know that kid’s gonna have a good life.”

John looked over at Brian and gave him a tremulous smile.

“I just like it when they beat the odds.”

Brian blinked at him, “Right.”

“It’s stupid,” John shrugged. “We can change the channel, this one is… the baby got taken away from her after filming finished, apparently.”

He looked genuinely upset about the fact, his face creasing in on itself.

“I think people forget when they watch reality telly that the people in it are real. They don’t stop when the cameras stop,” John gestured at the television, his sleeves still flapping about his hands ridiculously. “It’s funny, to us, that Steph wants to be in the mosh pit because she’s about to pop, yeah? It’s funny because we think how stupid it is. But it’s not funny, not really, that a fifteen year old can’t go do what her friends are doing.

It’s not really funny at all that she’s fifteen and about to have a baby she doesn’t really want, because she doesn’t understand what it entails. It’s not funny at all that her boyfriend got arrested earlier in the episode for joyriding. None of it’s really funny.”

Brian was frozen in his seat still, watching John ramble on with wide eyes.

“So,” John finished, exhaling sharply. “I like it when they turn out to be good parents, and they prove us wrong, and it’s not _funny_ not even a little bit.”

“... Right,” Brian said once more, nodding slowly. The atmosphere of the room had grown tense during John’s semi-monologue on the fucked up nature of reality television — partly as a result of Brian’s own stifling discomfort at the turn in conversation which had, in all honesty, been little more than a perfunctory attempt to move beyond their previous communicatory achievements (which had been stuck at _“Ah, Freddie and Roger out then?”_ whenever they had stumbled into one another in the kitchen during the past month since John had moved in); and also in part to John’s own apparent discomfort at having spoken at all.

Despite the awkwardness that hung heavy in the air, however, Brian now felt as if to leave John to his… complicated viewing of the telly show would be rude. Surreptitiously he checked his phone in case, during the past two or so minutes, he had missed a message from Freddie or Roger who had swept out of the flat earlier in the night in a whirlwind of faux fur and hastily applied glitter.

The screen of his phone remained cruelly blank, the grinning faces of his other two flatmates mocking him from their customary place on his lockscreen. He swiped downward to bring up the notification centre, just in case. Next to him, John curled his feet up under himself and shuffled further into the corner of the sofa as if to try and create more space between the two of them.

Brian sighed, and glared halfheartedly at the lack of new notifications. Only an old snapchat notification sat, from three hours ago. It was from Freddie, granted. It was also, unfortunately, a shakily shot video of Roger chatting up some burly bloke, accompanied by a sulking though very attractive lady, at a bar with the caption, _jolene, jolene, jolene, JOLEEEEEEEEEENEEEEEE._ It was also on Freddie’s story which Brian had viewed… three hours ago. Despite how many times Brian had told him not to send him snaps that he put on his story, Freddie continued to do so.

Roger’s snapchat story was, worryingly, blank. Generally this meant that he’d either lost his phone early in the night, or he’d gotten too drunk to update his frankly ridiculous social media following on his antics. Sighing and showing his phone under his arse, Brian conceded to himself that in all honestly either option was equally likely but both indicated a very late return from Messers Bulsara and Taylor. As usual.

“We really can change the channel if you like,” John offered meekly, pushing the remote which had been sat between them toward him with his foot.

“Oh, no,” Brian said, shaking his head a tad too enthusiastically. “Really, it’s fine. I’ve never seen this so it’s,” he paused, searching for the right word. “Educational.”

John just looked at him.

The problem with John, Brian thought, was that you could never tell what the hell he was thinking. From the moment that Freddie had pulled him through their front door and showed him off proudly like a stray kitten, Brian had honest to God not a single clue what was going through the bloke’s head. Roger had, of course, had no such problem with the sudden acquisition of a fourth flatmate; bounding from the sofa where he’d been cuddled up with Brian in a hungover daze, he’d bundled John off to his own room in which remained the only space for an extra body without question. An hour later, and very little explanation from Freddie (“Brian, darling. He plays bass like a funky little demi-god of a man, he’s in need of a place to lay his little head, and he’s cute. I have a feeling, sweetheart!”), Roger had reemerged with his arm slung around John’s shoulder to declare that he and, “Deaky are off to the pub. All that heavy lifting has me in need of a pint!”

Brian hadn’t even had the time to ask precisely _what_ heavy lifting before they were off, an absent minded wave chucked his way as they went. He’d remained on the sofa, somewhat shell shocked and more than a little confused as to where his scheduled afternoon cuddling session had gone. Freddie, painting the cat’s claw coverings, had given him a pitying look before continuing on with his self appointed task.

(“Where,” Brian had asked some time later in utter befuddlement from his place in Roger’s, and John’s now he supposed, bedroom doorway. “The hell did they get that fucking mattress from?”

Freddie, a cup of tea which smelled suspiciously like the lavender and chamomile blend Brian kept hidden under his bed clutched in one hand and the cat sat looped around his neck purring like a demented scarf, popped his head under Brian’s arm where it was splayed against the doorframe.

“Huh,” he said, and sipped his Brian’s tea thoughtfully. “You know, darling, I honestly don’t have the foggiest idea.”)

“Really,” Brian continued in the face of John’s continued inscrutable look. “I’m quite enjoying, uh, this,” he pointed at the telly screen, now showing an Argos advert. “Well, not this. Not the advert, never the adverts. I mean, God, Channel 4!” John blinked at him silently. “Makes you, uh. Always makes _me_ wish I was watching BBC, whenever the ads come on right when it’s getting good.”

Anxious laughter tried to bubble its way up his throat, but he swallowed it and instead opened his mouth to continue on when the sound of the front door being unlocked reached him.

“Oh, thank God,” he muttered, puffing out a quick breath to ruffle his fringe out of his eyes.

“Wha-?” John began, eyebrows creasing.

“OI! Fuckwits, can I get a fucking hand over here?”

“And lo, the sweet, dulcet tones of one Roger Taylor,” Brian muttered under his breath, jerking his head toward the hallway as if John could have somehow missed Roger’s shouted semi-greeting.

“Freddie is, literally, fucking covered in blood,” Roger yelled, his words slurring.

“What?” Brian shouted, jumping up as John scrambled out of his corner exile. The two of the them ran for the bathroom, bumping into one another in the narrowness of the hallway.

In the bathroom, which was situated right next to the front door, Freddie stood with his back to them facing the bathtub and held up a hand to the both of them, “I’m fine.”

“What the fuck?” said John, reaching out and touching the bloodstained back of Freddie’s jacket. His fingers came back shining red. “What,” he repeated, voice heavier. “The _fuck_.”

“I think,” Brian said shakily. “What John is trying to say is: bullshit you’re fine, Fred. What the hell happened?”

Freddie sighed, and turned around with a flourish. To all appearances, other than the blood which liberally adorned his clothing and had been apparently smeared somehow along his jawline, he was indeed fine.

“I,” he said, blinking somewhat slowly in the oft used technique of the intoxicated to appear both sober and trustworthy. “Am fine.” With that pronouncement he moved to the side, displaying the contents of the bathtub with the pizzaz of a magician revealing his final trick.

In the bathtub lay Roger, who pouted up at them. The glitter which had been applied with a heavy hand earlier in the evening still adorned his eyelids and cheeks, where it was mixed garishly with even more blood than had stained Freddie’s jacket. The cause, absent on Freddie, was apparent on Roger. His nose was swollen with blood tracks beneath it seemingly long since dried, however his eyebrow was marred with a horrific looking gash which was sluggishly releasing small amounts of thick, clotting blood.

“Freddie needs bloody help, you guys” Roger insisted, pointing at him. “He’s covered in blood!”

“Whose blood, you sodden fucker?” Freddie yelled, throwing his hands in the air exasperatedly.

Roger flinched.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled miserably, hanging his head. “My head really hurts.”

Freddie sighed and dropped to his knees, with only a little instability. He hungover the edge of the bathtub and stroked a hand through Roger’s rust stained hair, “Oh, darling. I know it does. It’s okay, we’re home now.”

“What,” Brian said loudly, his voice returning to him. “The everloving _fuck_ is going on? What happened to Roger? Fuck, do we need to call 999?”

Roger burrowed his head further in Freddie’s hand and whimpered.

“Keep your voice down!” Freddie snapped. “He doesn’t need an ambulance, there was a nurse at the bar who checked him out. It’s not deep enough to need stitches, and he doesn’t have a concussion. He’s just drunk as all fuck.”

“Why,” John said, looking between Freddie and Roger in bewilderment. “Is he in the bath?”

Freddie opened his mouth to answer, but Brian cut him off: “ _Why_ is he beaten to a bloody pulp?”

“There was a guy,” Roger slurred, pushing himself into a sitting position. He squinted up at them. Brian nodded; there was always a guy. “And then there was a girl? And she wasn’t happy, I think ‘cause I sucked off the guy in the loos? I don’t know, I don’t remember.”

Freddie was nodding along.

“And then she shoved me into the bar, and—”

“Wait,” Brian interrupted, holding up a hand. “Was this Jolene-girl?”

Next to him John whispered a confused, “What?”

“Oh, no, darling,” drawled Freddie, now sprawled haplessly on the bathroom floor with one hand stretched out behind him absently petting at Roger’s arm. “No, that was a different girl.”

“Right, so you got off with _another_ girl’s boyfriend, then,” Brian said, tiredly rubbing a hand over his eyes. John huffed out a slight laugh.

“He didn’t go off with that first one,” Freddie said. “Just to clarify.”

“What first one?” Roger asked, brow furrowed.

“The first girl’s boyfriend,” said Freddie, rolling his eyes even as his hand continued its comforting petting.

This seemed to confuse Roger even further, “What girl? The girl that threw the drink at me?”

Freddie straightened himself up to face Roger once more, “No, that was a different girl. We’re talking about the girl whose boyfriend bought you the drink with the umbrella, but you thought he was boring so you fucked off with his drink as well.” Freddie paused, and tilted his head in thought. “Which was delicious actually, so thank you.”

Roger beamed at him dopily, “You’re welcome.” He leaned over and smacked a loud kiss on Freddie’s cheek.

“I think we’re getting off track,” said John, still looking very wide eyed at the scene in front of him. He was, Brian supposed, a virgin to the absolute goddamn nightmare that was a Bulsara-Taylor escapade gone wrong. “You,” he gestured at Roger. “Got shoved into the bar by a girl?”

Roger, now clumsily plaiting Freddie’s hair over the rim of the bathtub, nodded jerkily. He continued braiding Freddie’s hair.

John met Brian’s eyes in exasperation. Brian shrugged helplessly.

“And then,” John prodded.

“Oh,” Roger said, letting go of Freddie’s hair. Freddie pouted. “Then I grabbed someone to steady myself but she didn’t like it and chucked a drink at me? I think.” He stopped, and shook his head in disgust. “Who chucks a perfectly good drink at someone?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” John muttered under his breath as Freddie, suddenly forgetting his imposed noise restrictions around Roger, shouted his agreement.

“A waste! A bloody waste!”

“And then,” Roger continued, lolling his head back against the tiles behind him. “Freddie came over because I was getting yelled at? And the girl’s boyfriend,” (“There are far too many girls with boyfriends in this story,” Brian murmured to John. “God,” said Freddie. “There’s too many girls in this story full bloody stop.”). “He came over because she was yelling? And there were two girls yelling at me and at Freddie, and the guy was angry because his girlfriend was upset, and then he said something super fucking rude to Freddie so I punched him.”

Freddie let out a theatrical gasp, fluttering a hand above his heart: “My hero!”

Brian buried his head in hands, “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“And I don’t remember the rest,” Roger finished. “But,” he continued thoughtfully, as if as an afternote. “I guess, Freds, the blood is probably mine.”

“No shit,” said John, sounding as exhausted as Brian felt.

“ _And then_ Roger got the shit beaten out of him by Goliath, and I carried his sorry arse home because all of our Uber drivers cancelled when they saw the state of him,” Freddie concluded, making a rather regal flourish with his hands to indicate the ending of the story. He looked back at Roger and hummed contemplatively, “Though I’m not sure if it was the blood of the glitter that put them off more, if I’m honest.”

“It’s not even midnight,” Brian said with something bordering despair lacing his tone. “You only left the flat at six. It’s been five hours.”

“Ah,” said Freddie, holding up both hands. “But what an eventful five hours it has been!”

Roger, who had slid down until he was now laying down fully in the tub, giggled before abruptly stopping and letting out a mournful, “Ow.”

This was, to Freddie apparently, hilarious and he burst into raucous laughter.

Brian and John, still stood in the doorway, watched.

“Should we,” John said, haltingly. “Should we do something?”

“No,” said Brian. “Head wounds bleed a lot, and Freddie said Rog got checked out by a nurse so he should be fine. Probably looks worse than it is.” The cat had entered the fray, and ignoring Freddie who let out a sad cry at such behaviour, it jumped into the bathtub and began kneading at Roger’s tummy. “I’m going to bed.”

“Oh,” said John, eyes darting between the two men sprawled in the bathroom and Brian who was now walking away. From the bathtub came a small snore. Freddie, perhaps drunker than John had given him credit for, stumbled to his feet with little grace. “You okay, Freddie?”

Freddie flapped an arm in his direction dismissively, and clambered into the bathtub to curl up around the cat and on top of Roger. Roger huffed in his, vastly uncomfortable looking, sleep.

“Right,” John said. “Naturally.”

He did them the favour of turning off the light as he went.  



	2. Chapter 2

“So?” Freddie exhaled, slumping into the booth opposite him with a grin. “What did you think?”

The pub was surprisingly full for a Thursday night, with students pushing against each other at the bar for a pint. On the stage behind Freddie: Brian was pulling apart the gear, and Roger stood amongst the throng at the bar with a wide grin and an open shirt. Brian set down a drum pedal particularly harshly.

“Hey!” Roger called from the bar, frowning up at Brian. Brian turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised.

“Well,” said John, tracing a pattern in the residue of condensation which had been left on his table. “You guys aren’t the worst I’ve heard.”

In the background Roger rolled his eyes, and taking his leave from his crowd of admirers bounded back onto the stage with his, dubiously paid for, drinks. From his seat, all that John could see was Brian’s initially stern expression slowly melting into one of not quite forgiveness, but rather a reluctant but well rehearsed acceptance as he took the proffered pint from Roger’s extended hand.

“Well, I never,” Freddie exclaimed, one hand raised to clutch at his chest. “‘Not the worst you’ve heard’ my perfectly sculpted arse, Mr Deacon.”

At the bar a not-insignificant group of young men and women, the university looking type, cheered as Roger spanked Brian’s backside with the stand of his hi-hat.

“You need a bass player,” John said flatly, keeping his eyes on Roger and Brian. Unfortunately timed, Roger looked over his shoulder and shot him a saucy wink sending the bar crowd into hysterics.

“Yes,” replied Freddie.

Silence between the two reigned for a minute or two. Freddie, unnatural in both silence and motionless, fidgeted constantly. John remained utterly still apart from the occasional drag from his pint. On the stage Brian and Roger disappeared, both loaded down with gear, although the nod Roger had given the bar staff had indicated an eventual return.

“Look,” said Freddie at length. “Frankly, you either agree here and now to consider playing bass for us, or—”

“Or what?” interrupted John, straightening in his seat and looking back at him finally. “I don’t have a place to live anymore?”

“What?” spluttered Freddie, looking utterly appalled. “I think if I tried to kick you out Roger would have me bloody castrated, darling. _No._ ”

John relaxed slightly, his grip on his beer loosening infinitesimally.

“Also, I mean, I’m an asshole,” Freddie said, with a minute shrug. “But I’m not that much of an asshole. No,” he continued, a hand reaching out lazily to catch a drink which appeared mysteriously within his expecting reach. “Or, Roger begins petitioning you.

And, darling,” Freddie paused briefly to take a deep drag of his inscrutable drink. “That bitch is one hundred percent more annoying, high pitched, and fucking unstoppable than I could ever dream of being,” he giggled, taking another sip. “You sleep in the same room as him, you silly sod.”

The stage remained empty, and although John was more than aware that both Brian and Roger were packing up the night’s equipment he could easily envisage Roger appearing at any given moment to further entangle him into his flatmates _scenario_.

In all honesty the very concept of a bandhad never arisen when Freddie had offered him a place to stay. Rather, John had replied to a rather sketchy looking poster on the student board because he was reaching all new lows of desperation. His previous flatmates, Dean and Caroline, had decided in the infinite wisdom of teenagers living away from home for the first time to get fucking _married_. Which, they had explained with appropriately apologetic expressions, really meant that he should be looking for another place, now, shouldn’t it?

God only knew how they were going to make rent on their own.

Despite over twelve other desperate looking hopefuls turning up to the impromptu interview in a relatively popular cafe close to campus, John had somehow landed the lucky (if, according to the reaction of Brian and Roger, unexpected) position of fourth flatmate. He now suspected that it may have had something to do with his brief mention of secondary school bass playing.

“If you think you can outlast Roger, well…” Freddie trailed off, gesturing vaguely with his drink and causing luridly pink liquid to splash over the rim and onto the table. “Greater men have tried and failed, my dear.”

“He’s not that bad,” John said, frowning slightly. Both Freddie and Brian were in the habit, or so he had noticed over the past month or so, of taking the piss out of Roger. This was, of course, done in a joking manner of which Roger himself was largely involved. Still, John felt the need to defend Roger when he himself was not there to do so. He liked to think that his roommate would do the same for him, despite their relative freshness towards one another.

Once you’ve seen each other’s morning wood unabashedly more than once a certain boundary is crossed, after all. Or, at least, John thought so. His flatmates did seem to have a more… open relationship with casual nudity than he was accustomed to. Freddie, on being caught starkers in the living room while playing Dance Dance Revolution on a beat up PS3, had blamed boarding school. Brian, having walked out of the bathroom also completely naked after forgetting a towel, had merely shrugged and apologised. Roger… was a whole other matter entirely, if John was being honest. Although he had, at least, told John to let him know if his habitual nakedness in their shared room made him uncomfortable.

“Darling,” Freddie said in a hushed tone, leaning across the small table towards him. “Roger is the goddamn love of my life.” He stopped, and kept John’s eye just long enough for the experience to become awkward, especially considering the topic of the conversation. “But that does not mean,” Freddie drawled, leaning forward onto his left hand which had remained unoccupied with both drink and theatrical gesticulation. “That he is not an utter _shit_ of a person when he decides he wants something, my dear.”

“And you think he wants me?” asked John. Immediately he recognised his mistake as Freddie blinked slowly, a lascivious grin stretching across his face as if somehow born to be in place.

“You think he wants me,” John added hastily with a worried glance at the still empty stage. “As a bass player?”

“When it comes to Roger, honey,” Freddie said with a wide smirk. “You can be assured he wants you in every single way possible.”

“When it comes to Roger,” parroted Brian, dropping into the seat next to Freddie and looping an arm around his shoulders. “You be assured he wants everyone and everything in every which way.” Although his tone was light, John thought he could detect a certain tightness around the eyes that indicated some discomfort with the idea.

Freddie pushed roughly at his arm, “Ugh, you stink!”

“Because you smell just lovely yourself, Freds,” Brian replied, pulling his arm back — Roger’s hypothetical desires forgotten. Surreptitiously he gave himself a sniff. “I smell like a man,” he continued, deepening his voice comically.

“Whatta man, whatta man, whatta man, whatta mighty good man,” sang Roger, appearing as if from thin air and depositing himself unceremoniously in Brian’s lap. Brian let out a grunt at the weight, his arms immediately circling around Roger’s waist.

“He’s a mighty mighty good man,” Freddie joined in, rubbing himself against Brian like a cat in heat. “Whatta man, whatta man, whatta man…” Roger and Freddie bellowed, tapering off when it became apparent that neither of them knew the following lines. At the bar a cheer went up, whether for the singing itself or its ending though, was unclear.

“Beautiful,” John drawled drily before taking a deep drag from his pint. He’d avoided before now accompanying Roger and Freddie, as a duo, outside of the flat. One of them on their own was bad enough, drawing attention like without it they would fade to dust — a trip to the corner shop with Freddie last Wednesday morning had resulted in an impromptu one man vocal exhibition in the magazine aisle. Freddie had been completely unabashed about his performance and had ended it with a bow to his nonplussed fellow patrons and a kiss blown to the unimpressed, if unsurprised, looking woman manning the front counter. John, clutching the bottle of milk that they had been banished from the flat to purchase to his chest, had tried valiantly to sink into the floor.

Roger, Brian had informed him when they’d returned and he had haltingly explained what had taken them so long, was currently banned from the shop for the next three months. What exactly he had done to earn such punishment was unclear.

(“It’s all just one big bloody con, I tell you,” Freddie had declared, spooning a truly unbelievable amount of sugar atop his weetabix. “The bastard just doesn’t want to go down the shops!”

Brian had sighed the sigh of one much accustomed to this particular bent.

“He really is banned,” he told John before snatching the sugar container away from Freddie who pouted petulantly. “Again.”

Freddie pointed his spoon across at them, “Exactly! Again! He’s getting banned on bloody purpose so he can get out of ever having to get his lazy little arse out of bed and buy us some fucking milk.” He paused to spoon some weetabix into his mouth and chewed angrily. “Who is it, John, do you reckon that finished off the milk last night? That tosser!”

He took another bite of his cereal concoction.

“The fact,” said Brian, staring sadly at Freddie’s bowl. “That I can hear the sugar granules crunching as you chew is honestly so, so upsetting to me.” Freddie stuck his weetabix mulch coated tongue out at Brian, who continued undeterred: “The sound will haunt me to my dying day.”

“You,” said Freddie, swallowing his mouthful. “Are trying to change the subject, Mr May. Do not think I am at all swayed. That little prick is sleeping away in his bed right this very second, smugly ignorant of the trials and tribulations John and I underwent in the name of sustenance on this very morn!”

“Ah yes,” said Brian, nodding sagely. “One does not simply walk to the corner shop.”)

The act of keeping up with one of them in public was exhausting enough and often had John wondering wistfully about the possibility of adult sized kiddy leashes. In the past he’d considered the act of leashing your toddler to be, if not inhumane, than at the very least a sign of bad parenting. Now he thought he understood the need to physically restrain _anything_ with the unbounded energy of a toddler.

In an act of self preservation, therefore, he had steadfastly avoided situations such as this. He wished he could say that Brian would be of help, but given the way that he had his head lolling against Roger’s shoulder almost purring as Roger set about playing with his curls, John thought he may be a a lost cause.

That he’d only known the lot of them for six weeks or so was baffling; he honestly felt as if he’d been putting up with the lot of them for years.

He finished off his pint.

“Johnny here thinks we’re not the worst he’s ever heard, Rog,” Freddie said, spinning his own empty glass on the table absently and cocking an eyebrow at John.

Roger laughed lowly and continued petting Brian with intense concentration, “High praise.”

John stayed silent. Freddie looked between the two of them, exasperation painted across his features.

“Did you know,” he continued desperately, leaning into Roger and Brian’s shared space eagerly. In his haste he knocked Brian’s arm, causing the guitarist to grumble softly under his breath and curl in deeper toward Roger. “That your roommate, the man with whom you abide, that trusted confidante sitting even now so close to you, Roger. Did you know that he is, indeed I tell here the truth—”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Freds,” Roger interrupted, leaning backward to meet Freddie’s gaze. “Will you get to the _point_ , you pontificating twat. You’re interrupting some quite nice cuddles.”

Brian hummed his agreement, eyes still stubbornly closed.

Roger straightened back up again, hands back in Brian’s hair, “You need a cut.”

“John plays bass!” Freddie exclaimed, losing his patience.

Brian, intrigued, opened one of his eyes and squinted over the table at John. Given his complete lack of interest in anything that wasn’t the lap full of blonde he had acquired in the last ten minutes or so, John felt somewhat flattered by the attention.

"I forgot that," Brian said contemplatively. "Fred did mention."

Roger continued tutting at the split ends he was finding in Brian’s fringe.

“Did you hear me?” Freddie all but shrieked, giving Roger’s hair a tug. “John plays the bass!”

“Oi!” Roger said, swatting at Freddie’s hand. “I heard you!”

Brian shot Freddie a warning glance over Roger’s shoulder, both eyes now open. Freddie huffed and slouched in his seat, arms crossed across his chest defensively.

“Well _excuse me_ if I thought we’d all be a tad more excited about it! We’ve been looking for a new bass player since Ti—” he cut himself off with a cough as Brian’s glare increasing tenfold. Roger tensed noticeably in his arms, leaning in closer to his hair and muttering to himself about deep conditioning schedules.

“I’m not getting a heated cap, Rog,” Brian grumbled, but his arms tightened around his waist regardless.

“We’re in need of a bass player,” Freddie finished, although somewhat lamely. He shot Brian an apologetic glance.

John, still watching this unfold, stole a desperate glance at the bar. The bartender, bless the heavens above, met his gaze and pointed one of the younger staff members over to the table.

“You could really do with one, it would really help with the flyaways I think,” Roger said as an aside, mostly to Brian’s hair. “Did you ever think, Freds,” he continued on, a little louder to the table in general. “That Deaky doesn’t _want_ to be our bass player?”

John eagerly tracked the progress of the bartender, a full pint clutched in her hand, across the room.

“Who,” Freddie shot back, reaching over and plucking Brian’s neglected pint from the table. “Wouldn’t want to be our bass player?”

Roger laughed and shrugged, “Oh, I don’t know, Freds… I could name about four bassists for you, off the top of my head.”

The bartender reached their table and passed John his pint, he handed her a tenner and indicated for her to keep the change. She grinned brightly and turned to where the others were sat opposite him, “Roger, right?”

Roger, Brian’s arms still wrapped around his waist, shot her a lazy smile as he looked up at her through his eyelashes, “That’s me, love.”

“I’m Nat. You were pretty good up there,” she replied, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Seemingly unconcerned with Brian and Roger’s puppy pile, and skirting the edge of professionalism she added: “You want another drink?”

“ _Well_ ,” said Roger, his smile widening just a fraction. John thought he looked a bit like one of the sharks out of Finding Nemo, all pearly whites and _‘Oh no, not me, I don’t eat pretty things like you for breakfast at all’_. “I wouldn’t say no.”

“Right, okay,” interrupted Freddie rolling his eyes as he made shoo-ing motions at the woman. “Off you fuck, dearie. Band discussion, very important.”

Nat blinked at him in obvious shock. She looked back at Roger who just shrugged one of his shoulders apologetically, his interest apparently having already waned.

“Goodbye,” Freddie continued, and handed her their empty glasses.

“ _Freddie_ ,” John hissed as she walked off, her steps heavier than they had been previously. As she reached the bar she slammed their glasses down, gesturing over at their table as she talked to her coworkers. “That was rude!”

“He speaks!” Freddie said unimpressed, and took a sip of Brian’s beer.

“That was really rude,” John continued, hunched over the table. He looked to Brian for support, but he was steadfastly refusing to meet his eyes. Looking at Brian’s hands, clasped on Roger’s hips possessively, John thought that perhaps he was beginning to disentangle some of the fucked up dynamics he’d clearly stumbled into. “I can never come here again.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Freddie sighed. “That’s my job, darling.”

Roger wiggled his way out of Brian’s lap, and moved around the table to slump down into the booth next to John. Brian snatched his pint back from Freddie, and downed half of it in a few swallows.

“If it helps any,” Roger said, throwing an arm along the back of the booth. “Freddie’s gravely insulted every other member of staff here already, so.”

“That,” John grumbled, shooting Freddie a baleful glare. “Does not help at all, actually.”

“Do you know what would help?” Freddie asked, with a bright smile. He fluffed his hair, checking his reflection in a compact he’d produced from seemingly nowhere. John knew for a fact that wasn’t any space for anything at all in the trousers he was wearing. Hell, there was barely space for _Freddie_ in the trousers he was wearing. “If you,” he closed the compact with a pointed click, and tossed it at Roger gesturing vaguely at his smudged eyeliner. “Played bass for us.”

John sighed.

“Eh, I prefer drums,” said Roger, lobbing the compact back at Freddie haphazardly. It bounced off of Freddie’s chest and landed in the middle of the table, splashing in the puddle of Freddie’s first drink which had remained from his earlier theatrics.

“Yo— you, ugh!” Freddie exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “You are all being completely unreasonable tonight, I honestly do not know what has gotten into the lot of you!” With that Freddie clambered over Brian who remained uncooperatively in place, moving only enough to hold his beer safely out of range of Freddie’s flailing limbs, as he struggled to exit the booth.

“I shan’t be home tonight,” he declared, looking down at them with exaggerated disdain.

“Fred,” Brian sighed, although to John it seemed rather halfhearted. Roger no longer appeared to be paying attention to the scene Freddie was causing, instead taking a picture of John’s hand clutching at his beer.

Freddie, noticing Roger’s distraction, sniffed once before flouncing away.

“You mind if I tag you on Insta, mate?” Roger asked, nudging John with his shoulder.

“What?” replied John, watching Freddie leave the pub. Roger gestured at his phone, the picture having undergone in less than a minute or so some truly astounding editing. The vague highlights from the overheads at the stage had been increased vividly, leaving John’s hand a shocking green colour. Roger’s Instagram, a collection of dreamy or drunken candids interspersed with artsy looking shots such as this one, was in turns both incredibly artificial and astoundingly open.

Looking at Roger now with his entire outfit carefully arranged and hair artfully tousled, but his eyeliner smudged halfway down his cheeks and stubble appearing on the sharp edges of his jaw, John thought perhaps it spoke volumes.

“Insta? Can I tag you?” Roger repeated.

“Yeah, sure,” John replied, leaning over to see what he wrote.

_Soz Nat xxx_

John snorted, and let his head fall onto the table. Immediately he was filled with regret as sticky wetness spread across his forehead.

“I hate you all,” he moaned, trying not to smile.

“I’m pretty sure she follows me an’ all,” Roger said, ignoring Brian’s attempts to grab his phone from his grasp to see the post. “It’s posted! Jesus, Brian, you have your own phone.”

“Half the population of London follows you, Rog,” Brian said, pulling out his own phone with a smile. “Ha,” he said flatly after a moment, his smile withering as he scrolled through his Instagram feed and paused on the post in question. “How long do you reckon before you get a DM?”

John pushed himself back up and rubbed at the sticky mess that had his fringe plastered to his forehead as Roger shrugged. Brian was frowning down at his phone still. Already John longed for his more innocent days of, say, _yesterday_ when he’d been blissfully ignorant of whatever the hell it was that was going on between Brian and Roger. Or rather, he considered, what was going on with Brian in regards to Roger who was either the most stupid man in existence or wilfully ignorant.

He wished he could say which it was, but given that he’d watched in bewildered fascination as both Roger and Freddie combined had failed to figure out how to boil an egg not more than two weeks ago he wasn’t so sure.

This, he sometimes had to remind himself, was a man who had gotten into _dentistry_.

He’d have to speak to Freddie when he made it home in the morning.

“You can’t be swayed about the bass thing, I suppose,” Brian said finally after a long couple of minutes of silence interspersed only with John’s own grumbling as he scrubbed at his forehead with a couple of napkins. Roger remained occupied with his phone, his screen lighting up nonstop.

“I just,” John sighed, setting aside the sodden napkins. “I don’t think it’s a great idea. We all live together, which is stressful enough.”

Roger looked up from his phone, brow furrowed, “It is?”

“Funnily enough,” Brain interjected before John could formulate a reply, his tone just the wrong side of casual. Still in a bent over the bartender, John supposed. “You and Freddie aren’t the easiest people to cohabit with, Rog.”

Which was… not precisely where John had been going with that.

Roger frowned at him, “Because you’re such an easy going bloke, is that it, Brian?”

“I’m just saying,” Brian said, hands held out in a calming motion. “That you and Freds can be a bit much, that’s all.”

“Right,” Roger scoffed, slumping down further in his chair. “Sorry, forgot that’s how you see it. You all high and mighty, out there becoming a bleedin’ _astrophysicist_ so bloody smart and sensible. Just me and Freddie being a fucking nuisance half the time, ain’t it?”

Brian opened his mouth to retort, the twist to his mouth informing John that his reply was decidedly _not_ going to defuse the situation, and John jumped in before the whole scene devolved into a full blown domestic in the middle of the pub, “Wait, wait.”

He’d been witness to exactly one fight between Brian and Roger during his time at the flat so far, and he wasn’t keen to see a repeat in a public forum. Where Freddie ended fights before they began half the time by leaving in a flurry of slammed doors and heavy high heeled footsteps, Brian and Roger went at each other like nothing John had ever seen before. Freddie had come home from classes that day to the living room looking like a hurricane had gone through it, Roger barricaded in his room, Brian slamming around in his, and John sitting shell shocked at the kitchen table.

(“Oh, what was it this time?” Freddie had laughed, brushing aside a broken lampshade off of the sofa and settling John down with a cup of tea. John took a sip of the tea before hastily placing it on the makeshift coffee table, comprised mostly of biology textbooks and odd bits of dead electronics. Freddie: maker of utterly undrinkable tea.

“Did Roger leave some socks in the bathroom again? That’s what it was last time, you know.”)

“I don’t mean any of you are particularly stressful to live with,” John continued. This was a bit of a white lie. Even though Roger and Freddie were, in so many ways, the opposite of himself he found them generally quite easy to get on with day to day. His relationship with Brian, though very much improved ever since the night Roger and Freddie had accidentally forced them into bonding over their shared bloodiness and overall disastrousness, still felt strained. He couldn't quite put his finger on why it was that he felt that Brian was always judging him, but he did. Perhaps, given what Roger had just said, however, Brian was just the sort of bloke who gave off that vibe. “Just that living with other people in general is stressful.”

Roger still looked vaguely confused at this, as if the sharing of space with other people had never even mildly inconvenienced him at any point in his life, and repeated his earlier question: “It is?”

“Well,” said John. He weighed the chances of what he was about to say going down badly. Fuck it. “If you lived by yourself, Rog, you probably wouldn’t get into screaming matches with anyone about leaving socks on the bathroom floor.”

Roger laughed and pointed at Brian, “No, I’d just have to not live with him!”

“You’re funny,” said Brian, making a face at Roger who stuck his tongue out at him. The mood had lightened once more, and John relaxed slightly. Perhaps the bomb squad was a potential career move after university, if his skill at defusing these two meant anything at all.

“And I just don’t know if I really have the time to put towards a band,” John said, shrugging. “That’s all, really.”

Brian looked as if he was ready to argue, brow furrowing as he leant forward. Roger, however, slung an arm around John’s shoulders and drew him in for a rough hug, “Ahh, s’alright. The rockstar lifestyle isn’t for everyone, just look at Brian!”

Brian flipped him off, drained the rest of his pint, and just like that the topic was suddenly dropped, “You off out tonight?”

Roger huffed out a breath, ruffling his fringe out of his eyes, “I wish. Totally skint.”

“Makes a change.”

“Fuck off.”

(The next morning Freddie had staggered into the kitchen at just gone 8am, shoes in hand, and headed straight to the fridge. Digging out a bottle of orange juice, he’d just about collapsed into the chair opposite John at the kitchen table.

“Don’t look at me,” he’d moaned, before taking a drink straight from the bottle. John mentally added OJ to the shopping list. “I’m disgusting.”

“True enough,” John had agreed, turning his attention back to his scrambled eggs.

“Just tell me Brian isn’t here to judge me for my awful life choices,” Freddie had begged, clutching the orange juice in his arms like a lifeline. The cat, whose name John had still yet to learn, watched the scene with disinterest from atop the microwave. “He gives me these _eyes_ and I can’t bear it, not today.”

“He’s headed to class already,” John said, and chucked a bit of toast on the counter for the cat.

“Thank _God_ ,” Freddie whimpered, now using the orange juice as a cold compress against his temple.

John ate his breakfast in silence, the cat winding about his feet in hope of more food. He stood, dropping the last of his toast for the cat, and dumped his plate in the sink with a clatter. Freddie groaned, hushing him with desperate motions of his hand.

“I’ll grab my gear from my mum’s on Sunday,” he said as he left, grabbing his coat from his chair.

“Alright, darling,” Freddie said absently, eyes closed as he leant forward on the table. He hurried out of the door before what he’d said could completely penetrate the haze of hangover.

Halfway down the first flight of stairs he heard Freddie scream, “Roger, get your arse out of bed, I got us a fucking bass player!”

To say he was unsurprised to open his Snapchat after class to a picture of Freddie nursing a bruised arm captioned ‘drummer on singer violence is REAL’ was an understatement.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is this going anywhere? probably not! will i abandon this? probably! am i having fun atm though? yes!


	3. Chapter 3

Roger’s phone pinged at him from his desk and he groaned, ineffectually reaching out toward it from where he was laid on his bed. He squinted across at it and stretched further, wriggling himself on his front until he was half hanging off of the mattress to no avail. Despite his best efforts the desk remained in place on the opposite side of the room, a good foot or two out of reach.

Precariously balanced, and at the capricious mercy of gravity, he considered the distance and whether the likelihood of the message being anything of any import was worth getting out of bed any earlier than his 9am appointment required.

He had, in a fit of genius, gotten dressed for the day before he’d gone to bed to avoid this very problem. Some (Brian) would call it laziness. Roger called it on par with anything Einstein had come up with in his day.

Given he’d received seven messages last night consisting only of local takeout haunts he spent way too much money ordering in when he was drunk, hungover, or in the hazy in-between, attempting to hawk him cheap Tuesday deals… the chances of the message being particularly critical was low. Especially considering his (“Worrying, really, Roger.”) penchant for mid-week drinking at the local bars’ student nights. He was a little broker than usual this month, and the kebab place down the road was probably missing his business was all.

Not for the first time he regretted giving into Deaky’s insistence that he move his phone charger from his bed to the desk to mitigate the, apparently considerable, fire risk. That he’d delivered the lecture to Roger while he’d been half hung out of their shared bedroom window with a smoke had had no impact on John at all. Nor had Roger’s complaints that he was taking his information straight from the Daily Mail.

Usually he’d chuck a pillow at Deak’s and insist he pass him his phone, but the bastard had apparently gotten lucky last night and not come home. Either that or he’d stayed in the engineering lab overnight again, but Roger liked to imagine that at least one of them had had an interesting night.

Still slumped only a half inch from the floor, Roger dozed off again.

His alarm sent him careening head first from the bed.

“Fuck!” he cursed, sprawled gracelessly amongst his own discarded clothing. His phone continued to trill at him cheerfully from its godforsaken place on the desk. Marimba was a fitting theme song to his disgrace, he considered, pulling a less than savoury smelling sock from his cheek. Wincing, he stumbled up and staggered over to the desk.

Fumbling at the screen he dismissed the alarm and glared down at the smug grinning faces of his bandmates, blurry as the were, for a moment before tilting his head. He picked up his phone and sighed at the notification: text message from Freddie. Most likely his, at least, weekly complaint about Roger’s ban from the corner shop.

The egg incident had been an honest mistake, he swore. As had the time with the Ribena, and honestly what shop didn’t lock their doors when they were shut?

Regardless, he swiped it and thumbed in his passcode. Ever since the time Freddie had utterly ruined his surprise birthday party by endlessly swooping over to check Roger’s notifications when his phone went off he’d had to turn off the full notification display. Was it annoying? Yes. Was it worth not ever seeing the devastated look on Brian’s face again like when Freddie had sauntered into his surprise party half an hour early, his mate Mary rushing after him spewing pointless apologies? Also yes.

** IF I HAVE BEEN KILLED THIS MAN DID IT <3 **

Yesterday 11:19 PM

ok darling i’m just saying….. he Wants me

freds u think every man wants u tho

are you claiming they don’t?!

fucking rude if so

thats exactly what im sayin hun xxxx

don’t ‘hun’ me when you just ripped out my heart like that

who bloody raised you?!

my mama xxxx

she taught me to tell the truth xxxx

well that’s a goddamn lie, you traitorous whore

xxxx

Today 8:07 AM

:(

 

Roger frowned at the sad face.

‘u ok babe??’ he sent in reply, toeing on a pair of sneakers he was at least 98% sure belonged to him.

He hurried into the bathroom and peered at the mirror appraisingly. In all honesty he could do with a shave, but he also had less than five minutes before he had to leg it for the bus and he knew it took him at least half that to wrangle his bloody contact lenses in — ten years of using the fuckers and it still took him the same amount of time. A splash of cold water and a hurried brush of his teeth would have to do.

At least his hair looked alright.

As he set about scrubbing his teeth with only about 40% of the diligence he knew he should really be applying his phone pinged again. Freddie.

 

Today 8:37 AM

it’s a bad day :(

 

Roger spat out his mouthful of foam and sighed, immediately opening his gmail app he thumbed past the ever empty _roggiet_ account, the ever overflowing _rogermtaylor_ account, and began an email to his academic supervisor on his student account:

 

_Kirk,_

_Terribly sorry for the late notice but I’m afraid I won’t be able to make our 9am meeting this morning as my car has left me stranded on the side of the road. Could we reschedule for tomorrow, or even next week? I trust the AA will have made it to me by then, or hope at least._

_Cheers,_

_Roger Taylor_

 

He toed the sneakers off again, now only 70% sure of his ownership of them, and lined them up neatly next to the bathtub.

On the plus side, he mused as he shuffled toward Brian and Freddie’s shared room, at least he didn’t have to fight with his contacts today. He knocked on the bedroom door softly and, not waiting for a reply he knew was unlikely to come, peeked his head around the door and into the room. The curtains were closed, leaving the cramped room shrouded in a soft purple glow. Brian’s bed was empty, of course, with him having early classes or work to fill up his mornings almost every day. Freddie’s bed, however, was inhabited by one big lump right in the middle.

“You want company, babe?” Roger asked, moving slightly into the room. He was careful, although not entirely sure why, not to let too much light from the hallway into the room. The lump on the bed moved somewhat. He assumed that was a yes and moved towards the bed, deftly stepping over the pair of platform boots he’d scored off of Depop just last week for a steal, and slipped under the covers to curl around Freddie in the stifling heat of the bed.

“Hi,” Freddie whispered, and wriggled back until they were pressed flush together.

Roger gave him a squeeze, “Hey there, love.”

“You’re dressed,” Freddie said, fingers trailing the cuff buttons of Roger’s shirt. “Are you going out?”

“This early?” Roger said with a scoff, breath ruffling Freddie’s hair softly. “Not bloody likely.”

In the suffocation afforded by the duvet covering the two of them the lie tasted mellow on his tongue, meandering in the air they breathed together heavy like a shared secret.

“Hmm,” murmured Freddie, fingers still a pattern of motion over Roger’s wrist as if searching for something. Roger waited.

“Are you okay?” Freddie asked softly, the pads of his fingers now smoothing over long healed hurts.

“I’m fine, Fred,” Roger assured, turning his hand inward to link their fingers. “I promise.”

“Oh,” said Freddie, and pulled his hand free from Roger’s grasp. Roger went to move back, sometimes Freddie could be like that: needing comfort one moment and demanding space the next. Instead of scooting away and shooing him from the bed once assured of his apparent well being, however, Freddie instead merely changed their positions until he was sprawled on Roger’s chest. Entwining their legs together he continued, “I was worried.”

The silence stretched between them like an elastic band, the tension thrumming through Roger’s body and rendering his muscles taut. He had never been the most patient of people, a fact which had lent itself well to his passion for drumming.

“About me?” Roger prodded, a hand now stroking through Freddie’s hair soothingly. The change in position had allowed for a gap between the duvet and the mattress, a fact for which Roger was glad. He felt as if he could breathe again. Freddie nodded, nose buried between Roger’s shirt and chest as if to escape the influx of fresh air from the wider room at large.

The thing with Freddie, Roger knew, was that his bad days were very rarely the result of something happening to _him_. Freddie was in many ways stronger than anyone else he knew. Freddie could take anything the world threw at him and come out laughing at the entire goddamn lot of them who ever thought that flinging shit at him would end up with him smelling of anything other than roses. No, Freddie was never all that concerned about himself. He didn’t curl in on himself the way that Brian did in reaction to imaginary insults, disappearing into his own mind replaying minor interactions from weeks ago.

He certainly didn’t resort to any of the measures Roger had been known to in attempts to drown out his own demons.

Instead, Freddie got himself caught up the web of anxiety over the people he cared about.

“I’m fine, Freds,” he sighed, curling strands of hair around his fingers loosely. The conditioner Freddie used was some kind of ridiculously expensive stuff from Lush that a friend of his scored him with employee discount, and it smelled heavenly. “I promise.”

“Okay,” Freddie replied, breath ghosting along his chest as his fingers curled almost painfully on his hip in a tandem of conflicting sensations. “It’s just… it’s nearly Christmas. I always worry.”

“You,” Roger exhaled, huffing a laugh and giving a lock of his hair a light tug. “Think about it more than I do, honestly. I’ll be fine, I always am.”

Freddie shot up without warning, wincing at Roger’s fingers still entangled in his hair. Hurriedly, Roger retracted his hand, breathing apologies as his fingers came away with strands of hair trapped between them. The duvet lay comically about Freddie’s head like an impractical hooded cape, and Roger blinked up at him owlishly as his eyes tried to adjust to the sudden influx of light, dim though it was.

“You are not always fine, Roger Taylor,” Freddie hissed, jutting an accusing finger at his face viciously as he continued: “You weren’t _fine_ three Christmases ago when...” His face crumpled in on itself, and he curled his arms back around himself defensively. “You’re not always fine,” he repeated, softer this time but somehow all the more terrible for it.

“Okay,” said Roger, sitting up slowly with his hands outstretched. In all honesty, he wasn’t all that good at this or at least he didn’t think so. He always had the slightly odd sensation of trying to calm a panicked animal whenever confronted with anyone he knew in distress, and at the weirdest moments his ma’s voice would play in his head _they’re more scared of you than you are of them, love_ as if he were attempting to catch a wayward Daddy Long Legs.

Suddenly, however, panic engulfed his chest, icy cold and drowned out his discomfort at Freddie’s unhappiness.

“You haven’t told?” he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper as if either of their flatmates could burst from the wardrobe in the corner at any moment. Freddie met his wide eyes incredulously, arms still wrapped around himself in a vice like grip.

“What?” Freddie said, his voice pitched ever so slightly higher than normal. “Have I told them that you’re a depressive arsehole with incredibly high self destructive tendencies? Because, darling, I’m not entirely sure if you think the chain smoking, binge drinking, and utter disregard for your own well being is _subtle_. Or—” he laughed, a little hysterically. “Or, have I told them about that time you tried to fucking _off yo_ —”

“Right,” Roger interrupted hurriedly, making shushing motions with his hands. He didn’t like it being spoken aloud, the things he had done, the things he still thought about doing sometimes. It felt a little bit like his childhood Boogeyman, if you spoke about it it might come back. Realistically he knew this wasn’t true, that talking about it would maybe _help_ but… “Okay, I’m sorry. I know you haven’t told anyone, m’sorry.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Freddie trembling under the duvet as Roger rubbed at his covered wrists unconsciously. The guilt crept in almost immediately, how could it not? With Freddie looking over at him with those terribly large eyes, trembling with that god awful combination of fear, and anger, and sadness.

“You could tell them,” he said at great length, eyes fixed squarely on Freddie’s bare feet where they were tucked underneath his bum with the tips of his toes just barely peeking out. God he hoped he wouldn’t.

“If it would… if it would help you. Feel better, I mean. I know you feel as if you have to sort of keep an eye on me all the time and that, if—” He took a shaky breath, trying to keep his voice steady, “If it would help to have Brian and Deaky know, I’d understand.”

Freddie shook his head violently, his hair flapping around like the ears on a cocker spaniel, “No. No, I wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m tell you you _can_ ,” Roger said, frustrated. It was one thing for Roger to carry about his secrets like an unfortunately apt noose around his neck, Freddie shouldn’t have to as well. He flopped onto his back, and beckoned at Freddie to lay back down with one hand as he used the other the cover his eyes. Freddie didn’t need telling twice and scuttled back into position, one arm snaking under Roger’s shirt and onto his tummy where it rose and fell with his every breath. Roger settled a hand back in Freddie’s hair once more.

“You know,” he murmured, as he played with Freddie’s locks. “My ma used to do this for me when I was sick and the such? I think it’s where I picked it up from, a comfort thing y’know?”

Freddie hummed contemplatively, “You do do it a lot.”

“Ha,” Roger chuckled, although there was little mirth to the sound. “So did my ma.”

Freddie mumbled something that was lost in the folds of his shirt, now uncomfortably damp from Freddie’s breath. Roger tugged a lock of his hair and jostled his arm just a tad, a silent request for him to repeat himself. Preferably at a volume recognisable to the human ear.

“I shouldn’t have texted you what I did yesterday,” Freddie repeated, louder this time but with his face still determinedly buried inside Roger’s shirt like a baby bird under its mother’s wing.

Roger frowned and tried to remember what Freddie had messaged him, but came up blank.

“Can’t have been that bad, mate,” he said with a shrug, taking remote amusement in the way his own movements reflected in Freddie’s own lax motions. “Honestly couldn’t tell you what it was if you paid me, and you know how skint I’ve been recently.”

Freddie groaned and peeked out at him from under his fringe, though at the angle they were positioned Roger could only just tell — and even then largely through the feeling of Freddie’s movements than from being able to see him at all, “About who raised you.”

“Ooh,” Roger said, slightly bemused. All this over that? “It’s a common phrase, babe. Deaks said it to me just the other day when I left a teabag in the sink.”

“I know,” Freddie moaned, shaking his head. “I was there! I just… I was thinking about how it’s nearly Christmas and then I remembered the message, and then I panicked ‘cause I haven’t checked what the other two are doing for the holidays and you don’t like being alone—”

“Are you going away?” Roger interrupted, and despite himself he could hear the slightly desperate tinge to his voice as his hand stilled on Freddie’s head.

“No!” Freddie exclaimed, moving to grab hold of Roger’s hand. “No, darling. I’ll be here, same as always.”

Roger relaxed again, interlocking their fingers together as Freddie smoothed a calming thumb over his own, “Won’t be alone then, will I? You’re overthinking things, Fredster.”

“Well, fuck me for being concerned then, darling,” Freddie bitched lightheartedly, giving him a squeeze. Mulishly, he added on: “And don’t bloody call me that, you know I hate it.”

They lay there awhile, drowsing together in the soft purple haze of the mid morning, until Freddie spoke again, “Are you going out today?”

Roger shook his head and ducked a kiss onto Freddie’s forehead, “Nah, babe. Just a day for you and me, I reckon.”

“That’s nice,” Freddie mumbled, dropping a kiss to Roger’s chest in turn. “Been awhile since we had a day to ourselves.”

“We gonna get out of bed today?” Roger asked, drumming an absent minded beat against Freddie’s hip. “Or am I gonna have something to brag about to the lads next time we hit the clubs? A whole day in bed with the great Freddie Bulsara—” he gasped dramatically, punctuated with a sharp prod to Freddie’s hip which had him squirming away halfheartedly. “I’ll be a living legend, me thinks.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Freddie laughed, quick fingers finding their revenge upon Roger’s ribs. From there it quickly devolved, the two of them rolling around on Freddie’s bed like two naughty boys with Freddie’s rather extravagant collection of decorative pillows flying every which way. Eventually, out of both breath and pillows they collapsed back next to one another giggling.

Roger turned his head to look at Freddie, finding him already watching him with his hair fanned about him a shock of black against his pristine white sheets — supposedly satin but almost definitely some kind of polyester concoction from Taiwan. He grasped blindly for Freddie’s hand and brought to his mouth for a kiss, punctuated with an overly loud, “Mwah!”

“Maybe she’ll email this year,” Freddie murmured softly both out of nowhere and yet also entirely expected, squeezing his hand ever tighter.

Roger sighed and turned his face back to the ceiling where no too-kind eyes were blinking at him.

“Maybe,” he said, with little hope. “I wouldn’t.”

Freddie rolled over and straddled his tummy, bopping him on the nose with a manicured finger, “Well, you know the way you would— _do_ —treat yourself isn’t anywhere close to how you deserve to be treated, my love.”

“God,” Roger huffed, a ragged sounding laugh that almost hurt to produce from the depths of his lungs. He was horrified to hear it sounded almost like a sob and closed his eyes in an attempt to escape Freddie’s. “I really am fine, you know.”

“I know, darling,” Freddie soothed, brushing his fringe from his face. “I know you are.”

“I shouldn’t have left her there,” Roger muttered, mostly to himself. “I shouldn’t have left her there alone.”

Freddie let out a broken sigh, his breath hitching half way through as he hands carded almost desperately through Roger’s hair. Absently Roger noted that now he’d told him about his ma’s habit, Freddie would likely attempt to pick it up himself like some sort of magpie of comfort.

“ _Darling_ ,” Freddie whispered, laying his forehead to rest on Roger’s own. “Roger, look at me,” he commanded, and Roger could do nothing but obey. “Would you still be here if you’d stayed?”

It was an unfair question, and Roger attempted to look away. He slid his head to the side, trying to escape. Freddie was having none of it, and yanked him back with a firm grip on his chin.

“No,” Roger mumbled under his breath, eyes still looking anywhere but Freddie’s own.

“You’d have been even less help to her then,” Freddie said confidently, rubbing at his scalp lightly. “Right now you’re here, and you’ve been here, waiting for her the moment she comes looking.”

Roger bit his lip and nodded. They’d had this conversation before, damn it. They’d had this conversation countless times before, in a truly astounding amount of settings. Hospital wards, and bathroom floors; club toilets, and college cafeterias; outside the corner shop at 3am on a blisteringly cold December evening, and even on holiday on France just last summer when the idea of her sitting up in fucking Cornwall while he dallied about hitting on the locals had sucker punched him in the chest as he sat munching on a bloody crepe of all things. But—

“She turns 18 next year,” he whispered, wishing inexplicably that he could pluck the words right back out of the air and bury them back inside of his lungs where they’d been festering since May 19th, stealing his very air with each mocking _no new emails_ that flickered up at him day and night.

“And you,” Freddie said, every word punctuated with a prod to his chest. “Will be right here waiting for her.”

“Right,” said Roger raggedly, blinking his eyes ineffectually against the tears which had gathered there without his consent. He wiped roughly as one attempted to roll down his cheek and shot a watery grin at Freddie, “God, you’ve made a right mess of me.”

“Not often I get Roger Taylor in my bed now, is it?” Freddie shot right back, now wiping tenderly at his eyes like the right mother hen he was. “Gotta make an occasion of it, wouldn’t want you to forget me.”

“As if I would ever,” Roger laughed, pushing weakly at his hands. “Fuck, you’re heavy,” he continued, just as Freddie rolled right off of him and then off of the bed as well, yanking him up with him as he went. Disoriented by the sudden and unexpected movement, Roger stumbled slightly as he attempted to find his equilibrium. “Jesus,” he muttered, grasping Freddie’s elbow.

“Enough of this weepy shit,” Freddie announced, clapping his hands with an open grin as if it weren’t he who had started the whole damn thing. “God, it’s dark in here. You couldn’t have turned on the light as you came in?”

Roger rolled his eyes, “My apologies, my lord. I had mistaken you for the prince of darkness, you see.”

Freddie laughed, and smacked a kiss to his cheek, “Let’s play Scrabble!”

“Oh, fuck, really?”

(“What,” Brian said, standing in the doorway to the living room. “The fuck has happened here?”

John looked up at him from where he was sprawled on the floor, teacup cradled daintily in his left hand, and clearly utterly wankered, “You say that a lot, you know?”

Freddie snickered to himself, and set down some tiles on the Scrabble board that was sat out in front of them. The sofa and coffee table had been pushed to the side of the room so as to give the three players adequate room to sprawl.

“That’s not a fucking word, Freddie,” Roger protested, squinting at the board with a discerning eye.

“Uh!” exclaimed Freddie, almost keeling over in his enthusiastic attempt to bodily display his displeasure at this statement. “Rule #3 clearly states that ‘words’ which we have received while sexting are acceptable!”

John drank deeply from his teacup before thrusting it in Freddie’s direction for a refill, who happily obliged as John took up his defence, “Rule #3 does say that, Rog.”

Roger, who was to Brian’s surprise remarkably sober, rolled his eyes, “Yes, but you also have to provide evidence.” He pointed at the board, “Do you _really_ want to show us when and how you received ‘hipoo’ in a sexual context?”

Freddie considered this for a moment before sadly conceding, “No.” He removed his tiles from the board.

“That’s a level 4 offence, and you must drain your drink in accordance to Rule #7,” John stated, reading aloud from a scrap piece of paper which was liberally decorated with glitter.

Brian sighed and gave the three of them up as a lost cause.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, adding the new tags as a result of this chapter: hahahaha y'all thought this was just lighthearted fun???? u FOOLS. where but on these hapless fictionalised people am i gonna displace my issues?????????????????????????????????? it's 3am and i've got work in 2 hours!! fun!! also tryna talk myself out of making a queen/borhap tumblr given that im mostly inactive over there but also my lurking is reaching higher levels than ever before so who knows


	4. Chapter 4

“I mean,” said Brian, futilely batting away Freddie who was attempting to land open handed slaps upon his person. “How do you adequately sum up Freddie?”

John shrugged in acknowledgement. Upon explaining his change in living situation to his family he’d settled, meekly, on ‘an interesting bloke’ as a descriptor for Freddie. His sister had looked both unimpressed and unconvinced; his mum, probably assuming that this was an attempt to convey ‘queerer than a green flamingo’ without seeming impolitic, had merely shrugged and gone back to watching Eastenders on the telly.

“Personally,” drawled Roger, taking a deep drag of his fag where he was perched on the radiator next to the balcony door where he was people watching. “I just tell people not to take their eyes off of ‘im or they’ll find him half an hour later doing lines of coke with a stranger in a McDonald’s loo.”

John choked on air for a moment as Brian nodded, “That is what you told me.”

“I would never!” Freddie squawked, abandoning Brian in his newfound outrage this time aimed towards Roger. Roger looked over with both eyebrows raised, and Freddie hastily tacked on, “Again. I would never do that _again_.”

“I was gonna say, mate,” Roger said. “That’s a true story, that is. Had to buy you a strawberry ‘shake ‘cause you wouldn’t stop bitching that it was coating your throat.”

“I’m classier than that now,” Freddie said, spreading his arms out regally. The effect was only somewhat dimmed by his desperate hold on Brian’s shoulder after a moment as he lost his balance. John snorted as Roger looked pointedly at Freddie’s top, a neon pink monstrosity with the words ‘PILLOW PRINCESS’ bedazzled across the chest.

“I am!” Freddie insisted, before adding with a cheeky grin. “I go to Burger King now, I’ll have you know. Got myself one of those little crowns and everything.”

Roger laughed, loud and bright. Brian —who had had a small frown creeping onto his face as always when Freddie and Roger’s less _mannerly_ extracurricular pursuits were brought into conversation for any particular length of time— watched him fondly, a smile smoothing out the crease which had been forming between his brows. Freddie’s own grin sharpened with something a little like victory.

(“Look, he’s never said anything,” said Brian quietly, eyes darting to the kitchen door every few seconds. “But he just seems to get pretty down around this time of year, y’know?”

“Like seasonal depression or something?” John asked, pouring out cat food absently.

Brian shrugged, “I dunno. Him and Fred just get a bit weird is all. Just wanted to give you a heads up about it.”)

Both Freddie and Brian seemed unsure of how to keep Roger engaged with the conversation, Brian’s mouth opening and closing multiple times as he thought better of whatever he thought of. Roger went to turn back to the window, so John hastily threw out, “So are we just forgetting about Brian’s awful wingmanship?”

Roger snorted, flicking him a soft look from under his fringe. John was a little taken aback to realise he was clearly aware of the eggshells they were all walking around him.

“No!” exclaimed Freddie, slapping Brian’s arm again. “We are not!”

Brian groaned, leaning forward to cradle his head in his hands, “I wasn’t that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Freddie repeated incredulously.

“Bri,” said Roger, stubbing out his smoke on the bottom of his shoe and ignoring John’s own baleful look at the floor where its ashes had fallen. “You were worse than Freddie himself left to his own devices, which is fucking hard to be.”

“Oh,” scoffed Brian, raising his head to glare playfully at Roger. “Because you were such a help!”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Freddie, pointing accusingly at Roger. “But I do just fine on my own, thank you very much.”

Roger hopped down from the radiator and ambled over to drop down on the sofa next to John. He shuffled over, draping John’s arm around his shoulder and hummed contentedly, “The only reason you even needed Brian to wingman you in the first place is because you saw the poor bloke get dumped and then swanned over not ten minutes later to scream-sing Avril fucking Lavigne in his face.”

Freddie, seemingly in shock at Roger’s chosen cuddle partner of the day, blinked for a moment and shared a look with Brian with whom he was sat next to on the floor, whose face had gone carefully blank.

“That,” said Freddie after a moment. John pretended not to notice. “Was months ago. Surely he’s over it by now?”

“Nope,” said Roger.

“Definitely not,” said Brian.

“Oh,” sighed Freddie, looking genuinely dejected. “I thought it added a certain gravitas to the situation.”

“When,” asked John, turning his hand over so Roger could trace the lines on his palm. “Has _Girlfriend_ ever added gravitas to any situation?”

“You weren’t there, Deacon,” Freddie said disdainfully with a sniff. “You aren’t aware of the complexities.”

“I was,” Roger said, tapping erratically at John’s love line. “And it was fucking _hilarious_ ,” he looked up at John and smiled. “I’ll show you the video later, you’ll bloody die.”

Freddie wailed dramatically and collapsed against Brian, “I’m going to die alone and miserable.”

“Aren’t we all?” replied John drily.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Roger, still inspecting his hand with a discerning eye. “Oi, Freds, come here and give John a palm reading.”

“You do palm readings?” John asked as Freddie miraculously recovered from his emotional torment to bound over to him enthusiastically.

“But of course!” Freddie answered, plucking his hand from Roger.

“No, he doesn’t,” Brian groused, falling back onto his elbows to watch them churlishly. He rolled his eyes, “He’s not a prope— not that there _is_ such things as proper palm readers, of course. But he’s not even a proper hack, just—”

“Oh, hush,” said Freddie, flapping a hand at him impatiently as he peered imperiously at John’s outstretched palm. “You’re such a bore, Brian.”

“Yeah, Brian,” Roger chimed, sticking his tongue out at him. Brian sighed.

“Hmm,” said Freddie. “Well, I shan’t tell you too much. Ruins the mystery of life if you have it all told to you now, dear.”

“Right,” muttered Brian. Freddie kicked out a foot at him, hitting his ankle.

“But,” Freddie continued, ignoring Brian’s protestations of injury behind him. “You will meet the love of your life next week.” He paused, cocking his head as if in intense concentration, “Yes, darling. Definitely next week, do keep an eye out!”

“Really,” said John, an amused smile lurking at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, well,” Freddie said, releasing his hand with a giggle. “I don’t know, but won’t it be fun if you do?”

Roger reclaimed his hand for his own, tracing the love line almost reverently as Freddie turned to Brian, still clutching his ankle pathetically, with his hands on his hips.

“Oh honestly,” he clucked, shaking his head at Brian. “And you claim we’re the overdramatic ones? It’s not as if I’ve mortally wounded you.”

“It’s bruising!” Brian insisted, pointing at the faint red mark Freddie’s boot had left just above his sock line.

“You giant _baby_ ,” Freddie sighed, offering him a hand up. Brian stood, balancing on his uninjured leg and leaning his weight on Freddie. “I suppose we’ll have to ice it, if it’s really that bad.”

“It is,” Brian said, leaning further onto Freddie. “You might even have to make me some tea to help with the pain. Some of my special blend that mysteriously went missing.”

He shot John and Roger a wink over his shoulder as Freddie led him from the room, muttering about the possibilities of scrounging up something approximating Brian’s tea blend as he went. Roger huffed out a soft laugh, fingers still tracing up and down John’s palm.

“What do you think?” John said, jostling Roger with the shoulder he was laid up against. “Am I gonna meet the love of my life next week?”

Roger hummed, his fingers finally stilling where his love and fate lines intersected, “He’s never been wrong so far.”

“Oh yeah,” asked John, intrigued. “Where’re they at, then?”

“Hmm?”

“The love of your life?”

“Oh,” said Roger, pulling away and standing with a laugh. “I fucked that one up years ago, Deaks.”

“You’re 22, Rog,” John laughed, still sprawled on the sofa. “Got a few years in you yet, I reckon.”

Roger shrugged, wincing as Freddie’s loud laughter rang out from the kitchen, “‘spose.”

 

* * *

 

“Huh,” said Freddie, falling back against his chair seemingly nonplussed.

John watched with amusement as he attempted to digest the information he’d apparently only just now discovered, his face screwed up in genuine confusion. Just as he opened his mouth, Roger trudged into the kitchen wearing the boxer briefs he’d worn to bed the night before and a pretty faux-silk robe which had certainly been nicked from Freddie at some point.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Freddie trilled, jumping up to start up the kettle. He bustled about setting up a cup of tea, complete with no less than three sugars.

“Good afternoon, more like it,” John muttered under his breath, ignoring the chiding look sent his way by Freddie.

“Freddie, you know I’m not going to drink that shite unless you start me a new one with no bloody sugar,” Roger grumbled, opening the fridge to rummage around their somewhat sparse breakfast options. He scratched at his tummy absently as he peeked inside before sighing and closing the door. He paused for a moment to read the note Brian had stuck to the front of the fridge (ROGER, DO THE FUCKING WEEKLY SHOP) and then moved to join John at the table.

“But darling, if you’re not going to have breakfast you need something for your blood sugar!” Freddie insisted, despite having already begun another cup sans sugar. He brought both back to the table, handing Roger the one least likely to give him diabetes.

“I keep telling you, babe,” Roger mumbled, holding his cup up to his face and breathing in the aroma sleepily. “Blood sugar don’t mean your blood has to be made up of entirely sugar.”

Freddie eyed Brian’s note and asked, “Do you feel up to popping down the shops with me later?”

“I guess,” Roger replied, eyes now shut as he sipped his tea.

John eyed him with concern. In the lead up to the Christmas break they’d all been pretty busy with exams and final assignments for the term, with hardly any two of them being in the flat at the same time. Brian seemed to have taken up almost full time residence at the library, although John thought he may have spotted him darting across the road for the bus with a carrier bag full of clothing right in the thick of it all.

He wasn’t entirely certain, however. He himself had just been staggering home from a three day bender in the labs. He could have hallucinated the whole thing.

Freddie appeared to have had the easiest time of it, having worked on his portfolio throughout the term. It did seem as if he’d picked up shifts at one of the stores he worked odd hours at though, if the extra money appearing in the household expenditure jar was anything to go by. Neither John nor Brian had been working anymore than strictly required, and Roger…

Roger had definitely been studying, he knew that. His desk, usually a glorified phone stand and collector of empty mugs, had instead been steadily accumulating loose papers which had all been heavily highlighted to near futility. He himself had been cornered by his harried looking roommate right at the beginning of the month, just before the panic bug had gotten to the rest of the flat, for feedback on an essay for an elective course in gender studies. He’d been forced to admit after reading all twenty pages that he had no bloody clue what on earth it was about, but that it was very academic sounding.

(“God,” Roger had laughed looking utterly exhausted as he ran a shaking hand through his hair leaving tufts sticking up all over the place. “Me neither. I’ll take the win with ‘academic sounding’, though.”)

It was just that he’d also been out a lot. And not in the way that they were all out studying and working, but _out out_. Freddie had taken to following him around the house like a mother hen, producing cups of tea and packets of biscuits out of thin air whenever Roger stopped moving for any given moment. Half of the reason John had been pulling so many all nighters in the labs was to avoid being woken by Roger’s bleary entrances into their shared room at any point between 3 and 7am most mornings. He’d been burning the candle at both ends for weeks now, and John was apprehensive about what would happen when he finally burnt out.

Certainly nothing good, if Freddie’s rather obvious agitation over the situation was anything to go by. He could only hope that now term was over it would all balance itself out again, though his hopes weren’t in all honesty very high.

“You would not believe,” Freddie said brightly, moving through the awkward silence which had settled over the table with the subtlety of a bulldozer. “What I just learned, Rog.”

Roger, massaging one of his temples with a grimace, gestured for him to continue with his mug.

“Did you know,” Freddie said, leaning in as if sharing salicious gossip. Roger dropped his hand from his temple to grope around in the pocket of his robe, drawing out a pair of sunglasses which he hastily placed on his face. “That we have a _straight_ living in our abode?”

“Oh my God,” John huffed, covering his face with one hand as he laughed. “Anything but a straight!”

“Can you believe?” Freddie said.

“Well, yeah?” said Roger, looking confused. He pointed at John, “Deaks.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” John said, flipping Freddie off.

“What? No,” Freddie hissed, throwing himself into the back of his chair and crossing his arms petulantly. “You did _not_ know he was straight, you fucking liar. Look at him! Look at his hair!”

John tugged on his hair self consciously, “What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Nothing’s wrong with your hair, dear,” Freddie soothed, petting him somewhat patronisingly on the head. “It just… doesn’t scream heterosexual, you know?”

John didn’t know.

“Well, your teeth don’t exactly scream cocksucker,” Roger said lightly. “And yet…”

“Touché,” said Freddie, acknowledging the hit with a toast of his mug. “But in all honesty, darling, I was so sure you weren’t straight I skipped the question in the interview for the flat.”

“You were asking everyone if they were gay?” John asked incredulously, remembering the shell shocked look which had adorned the faces of the blokes that had gone before him during his first meeting with Freddie.

“Of course not!” gasped Freddie, a hand clutched to his chest. “I would never!”

“He asks,” sighed Roger, his eyes rolling just visible behind the dark tint of his sunglasses. “What their opinion of disco is. Which,” he continued, tilting his head to look at Freddie over the rim of his sunnies. “Is not a reliable method of discovering who does or does not like cock, as both Brian and I can attest.”

“Says the man,” Freddie muttered mulishly. “Who gave such a rousing rendition of Donna Summer’s _Hot Stuff_ last year that he ended up on The Fairy’s wall of fame.”

“Do you really,” Roger said, pausing to take a sip of his tea. “Want to discuss the events of that night. Right now, with John here?”

Freddie glanced at John, “No.”

“You literally gave me a play by play of the first time you ever gave a blowie the other day,” John said, in both awe and fear. “Complete with visual effects by way of banana. What the hell could have happened that would be somehow crossing a line to talk about with me here?”

The fact that Freddie was blushing struck genuine, deep seated terror in the pit of John’s stomach.

“You don’t want to know,” said Roger, and downed the remainder of his tea in one go. “I don’t even want to know, but unfortunately we don’t all get the pleasure.”

“You know what—” Freddie hissed, a teasing smile on his face as he leaned forward one more.

“I like disco,” John interrupted in a mild tone.

Both Roger and Freddie looked at him for a moment.

“And you’re _sure_ —”

“Yes.”

“This is a safe space, honey,” Freddie continued.

“Freddie,” Roger said, warningly. Freddie leaned back in his chair again with a sigh.

“I just don’t understand how I could have been so wrong,” Freddie moaned, snatching his phone off of the table and dejectedly fiddling around on it.

“Freddie,” Roger said heavily, leaning over to grasp his free hand. “Babe, we’ve had this talk. You’ve the gaydar of a blind penguin. But it’s not your fault, and it’s something that with some adjustments I’ve heard you can live a full, and normal life—”

“Oh, fuck off,” Freddie laughed, pushing his hand away before suddenly jumping up. His chair crashed to the ground, and he gave a victorious cheer as John and Roger blinked up at him.

“Fucking Christ, Freds,” Roger groaned, wincing at the noise. “Make some more bloody noise, why don’t you? I don’t think Brian heard you over at Imperial.”

Freddie rolled his eyes, “Well, if you were a little less green this morning I’m sure you wouldn’t have a problem with it, darling.”

Roger flipped him off.

“But, I have here,” Freddie continued unabashed, brandishing his phone in the air. “Proof that I was, indeed, correct all along!”

“About what?” John asked, confused.

“Your imaginary love of penis, I would imagine,” said Roger, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“And you imagine correctly, Mr Taylor!” Freddie exclaimed with the enthusiasm of a television game show host as he danced around the kitchen.

“How can you be right,” John said, squinting at the phone as Freddie waved it aloft. “When I’m straight? What did you find, my long lost twins stunning career in gay porn?”

“Believe me,” muttered Roger, looking unimpressed at Freddie’s theatrics as he continued to crow loudly about his unparalleled genius in the affairs of dick. “If you had a long lost twin in gay porn, the one handed wonder over there would have found him before now.”

“Rude,” said Freddie in an aside, before continuing his supposed victory dance.

“I’m just saying,” said Roger, an amused smile working its way onto his face despite his obvious reluctance to give into Freddie’s shenanigans. “Perhaps if you tried to chat blokes up with a line more subtle than ‘let’s fuck’ you might have more luck and thus less… alone time.”

“None of this matters,” Freddie singsonged, although he did stop briefly to softly swat Roger over the back of the head before dancing his way back around the table to John. “Because I was right!”

“You weren’t, though,” said John exasperatedly, giving into the urge to yank Freddie back into his chair at his next pass around the table. “Also, you’re making _me_ dizzy so I can only imagine what you’re doing to Rog.”

Roger gave him a sloppy salute.

“Ah, I may not have been right about your sexuality, my dear,” said Freddie, still grinning. “ _But_ despite what Roger will have you believe, this was not the fault of my wonky gaydar!”

“Really,” said John drily. “Do elaborate.”

“Brian also thought you were gay!” Freddie exclaimed, waving his phone in the air again.

“Oh, well I knew that,” said John, thinking back on the various unhappy glances that had been thrown his way over the past month or so whenever he and Roger had gotten too close for Brian’s comfort.

“Are you really trying to hold Brian as the gold standard here,” Roger asked Freddie, pushing his sunglasses up and into his hair. “ _Brian_ who genuinely thought that Ricky Martin was straight? And used _Livin’ la Vida Loca_ as evidence of this supposed straightness? That Brian?”

“Seriously?” said John with a giggle.

“Oh, don’t let the astrophysicist mask fool you,” said Roger. “He’s cute, but he’s an idiot.”

“We all know _that_ ,” huffed Freddie, with a roll of his eyes. “But yes! Brian thinks everyone is straight. A bloke could be riding him into bloody oblivion and he’d still worry the next day whether he’d just gotten mixed signals. If he thinks you’re gay, then—”

“He needs to stop being a jealous twit?” John murmured.

Freddie shot him a surprised glance.

“Well, yes,” he said haltingly.

“What?” said Roger. “I didn’t catch that, Deaks.”

“Honestly,” said Freddie, recovering quickly and shooting Roger a faux-concerned look. “You need to get your hearing checked, darling. Those drums are going to send you deaf sooner rather than later it’s seeming.”

“I can hear just fine!” Roger protested, chucking a placemat at him. “Deaky’s the one talking like a bloody mouse!”

“Well, I heard him just fine,” said Freddie stubbornly, sticking his tongue out.

“You’re sat right next to him,” said Roger, pointing between the two of them. “I’m all the way over here!”

Freddie looked down at the table, and then at Roger, “Ah, yes. Such a distance between us. Perhaps that’s why you didn’t hear John! The distance is so great the sound is still travelling to you.”

“You are _such_ a wan—”

“If you want to get the groceries in before Brian gets back,” John interrupted, snatching a placemat out of Freddie’s hands preemptively. “You’ll have to head off soon, he’s only tutoring ‘til 5 today.”

“Ugh, I can’t be fucked getting dressed,” Roger sighed, picking listlessly at his robe.

“As much as I wish you could wander around half naked, darling,” said Freddie, surreptitiously attempting to tug the placemat back from John under the table. “Unfortunately it’s no shirt, no shoes, no service in this bloody fascist state.”

“Alright, alright, Sid Vicious,” Roger grumbled, standing and making his way from the room.

As soon as he had left Freddie let go of the placemat, his bright grin fading from his face quickly.

“Is he okay?” asked John, gesturing to the door Roger had just exited through with his head.

Freddie sighed, “As ever, my dear.”

John’s face must have portrayed that he was not particularly assured by this remark, as Freddie gave him a smile and a pat on the arm.

“Just one week til Christmas, Deaky!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like there's a lot more dialogue in this one idk?? tis a bit clunky because it's essentially two abandoned chapters stitched together but i felt i needed to get a bit past the downer of the last chapter sigh idk what im doing just going with the floooow. think it'll be a brian chapter next tho. have discovered i start writing when my fave fics haven't updated in a few days as i grow desperate hahaha
> 
> thanks so much for the comments they honestly make my day every time!!


	5. Chapter 5

The thing is: Brian’s been a bit in love with Roger since the first time he met him.

Back when Roger had sat behind a hastily borrowed drum kit in the music department’s basement decked out like a low rent Harry Styles and bitched loudly about the drums being out of tune, having swaggered into the room and given the setup the most unimpressed look Brian had seen on anyone outside of his own dad. A cigarette stuck behind one ear, a pair of knock off ray bans hanging from the front of his barely buttoned up shirt, his only concession to the January weather raging outside an impractical faux fur coat; how was Brian not supposed to fall just a little bit right there and then?

And it’s been years now since that first meeting and he’s more in love than ever every day.

During those first months of knowing Roger it had been little more than a crush built on basic physical attraction and the awe that comes from meeting someone who appears so utterly unashamed of who they are, smothered only slightly by the obvious thing that was building between Roger and Tim at the time. Brian’s been a lot of things over the years: confused; closeted; open. Part of a love triangle in his own damn band wasn’t about to join the list.

Besides, before Tim left the picture it honestly was just a crush. The kind of latent attraction founded in lingering looks that aren’t returned, small daydreams built on what you _hope_ the other person will be like, and the utter rejection of reality as a factor because it just doesn’t matter. The feelings so new as to barely be significant.

In truth, Brian’s always been the kind of person to fall just a little bit in love with the idea of people. People he passes on the street who have something about the slope of their nose; the laugh he heard in a bar when he’d just turned 18; the man who helped an older lady onto the bus despite then not even getting on himself. He can see or hear something from someone and spend weeks lying awake staring at the ceiling and imagining the kind of person they are, just how perfect they’d be together — he and this figment of his imagination constructed like a paper collage of features and sensations.

The problem is, however, that in building people up in his mind to such heights they can rarely ever match up. Of course they can’t. Imaginary arguments are reworked again and again until he has a satisfactory resolution mapped out that he can safely replay knowing that they would say _exactly_ the right thing. Never would an anniversary be forgotten, or a birthday gift inadequate. Their favourite restaurants would just happen to be the same, their music tastes never clash. After a bad day they would mysteriously be free of all other obligations to wind fingers through his hair, curling in front of the telly to watch Corrie together, long blonde hair brushing Brian’s nose as Roger bent over laughing at th—

But no. It began as a crush. In the beginning it was lingering gazes on the curve of Roger’s arse and daydreams built with all the structural integrity of a sandcastle.

Daydreams fall apart when the tide comes in, salty brine washing the shoreline with the bitter taste of reality.

Brian knew he was in trouble, real trouble, after Tim left. When Roger reluctantly introduced him to Freddie, the guy who had been sat at the bar almost every gig that Smile booked. The one who sent end of set pints to, “The hot blonde? Don’t shoot the messenger, Tim. It’s what he said!” And that was the beginning of the end, for Brian’s sandcastle at least. You see he’s not sure you can know someone, really know them, if you don’t see them with those that they’re closest with. People are layers upon layers of interactions and emotional connections. With each new layer you uncover, the clearer they become while all the same becoming all the more complicated for it. Roger is the best example of this he could give.

Before Brian met Freddie he would have told you that Roger was the most confident man he’d ever met. Watching him enter a pub full of burly rugby players on a Sunday afternoon kit out in a fringed leather vest and sparkly pink Converse and not sparing them a second glance, at only 19? As far as Brian was concerned the Queen herself could have given Roger the stink eye and he would have laughed it off, throwing her a wink as he went.

So perhaps Brian’s crushes were never doomed as a result of the people themselves never quite meeting the standards he set them, but instead he was always just a shite judge of character. Or, as he tended to think during the annual winter holidays, Roger was just a bloody good actor eleven months of the year.

Regardless, meeting Freddie was a little like being introduced to Roger anew.

It wasn't how Roger acted around Freddie that gave him away, not really. Not straight away. No, the ways in which Roger picked up the pieces of Freddie that shattered and fell as he attempted to expand and take over each and every room he entered; the fortnightly Bulsara family dinners which whisked them both away on Tuesday nights (“I get on with my family, darling. Don’t get me wrong, I love them all dearly and we’d all be a shambles without each other. Honestly, you should see the Whatsapp group. But, dear Lord, they can be hard work!”), and returned them laden with fragrant scented casserole dishes; the aftermaths of the relationships in which Freddie poured his entire heart and soul into time and time again.

None of those ways were immediately obvious to Brian.

But the way that Freddie watched Roger like he was precious and fragile and brave, that was obvious. The snarl that had adorned his mouth the first time a punter after a gig had slurred about what a cockslut he’d heard their drummer was, pretty little fairy like that; and the truly ridiculous amount of fretting that had followed the punch Roger had thrown at the fucker’s face.

(“God, _fuck_ ,” Roger cursed, trying to pull his hand back from Freddie’s vice-like grip. “I’m fine! It’s just some bruising!”

“I know your _hand_ is fine,” Freddie frowned, peering at Roger’s face intently and completely ignoring Brian’s attempts to usher them away from the backdoor they had been not-too-kindly ejected from. “I should go back in there and give him another, the homophobic bastard.”

“The guy didn’t even get a punch in,” Brian chimed in, peering at the alleyway suspiciously. The guy had had a few friends with him, and they’d definitely seen them get kicked out. Roger and Freddie might be somewhat used to getting into these kinds of scraps, but he definitely fucking wasn’t. His dad would absolutely lose his shit if he ever got arrested in a bar fight of all things.

“That’s really not the point, sweetheart.”)

Sometimes watching Freddie and Roger orbit around each other was like watching two lemmings attempting to defend the other to the death: a very impressive display of loyalty, but either way they were both most likely going off of the cliff edge together—albeit covered in glitter and singing Elton John as they went. Just one night with Freddie and Roger and you knew that these two had been through some kind of shit together, and you weren’t getting one without the other. No way, no how.

And so, as the months passed and the days grew colder, the tide came in and washed away his sandcastle. Roger was confident, yes, but on the days he wouldn’t take his shades off it meant he wanted to pretend no one was looking at him. Roger had waltzed into his audition for Smile with nary a backward glance, because Freddie had been waiting outside for him. Roger was a chain smoker when he was stressed, and had the most God awful temper which could flare at the strangest of moments. Roger hated Christmas for reasons only known to Freddie, becoming practically despondent during the festive period to the point that Freddie refused to book gigs until it was over. Roger certainly wouldn’t be cooking him a meal after a long day of exams because he could barely toast a piece of bread, and his idea of a romantic night in consisted of A Clockwork Orange queued up on Netflix with a bottle of £2 plonk from the Tesco Express two streets down.

(His arse did still look delectable in the skintight fashion he favoured, however.)

The difference though, between his crush on Roger and the plenitude of crushes which had come before him, was that each granule of make believe swept away on the daily was replaced with brick and mortar. Where previous figures of desire had toppled from their pedestal as he learnt more and more about them which rendered his fantasies false, the pedestal on which his craving for Roger rested instead lowered itself inch by inch until the man he was dreaming of actually existed right there in front of him day in and day out.

The thing is: Brian knew he’d never recover from loving Roger the same day he realised that even the parts of Roger he didn’t like, he loved.

 

* * *

 

“Brian,” Freddie’s voice hissed into their bedroom from the ajar door. Brian groaned and checked the curtains with one blearily opened eye. Yep, definitely still morning. Definitely too early to be being woken up after his volunteer shift at the animal clinic last night. “Brian.”

Maybe, he thought, if he ignored him, Freddie would go away.

“ _Brian_ ,” Freddie hissed again, this time also flickering the light on and off. “Wake the fuck up you nocturnal hussy.”

“Hussy?” came John’s voice, sounding amused. Brian refused to give them the satisfaction of turning to face them. “He spent the night bottle feeding hedgehogs, Freddie.”

“You haven’t seen him with the blasted things,” Freddie said darkly, still flicking the switch like a child left unattended in the backseat of a car for too long. “I’ve had my doubts about the asexual nature of his relationship with them.”

Brian tried to burrow further under his duvet to escape both the light and his flatmates, who were now bickering quietly about the difficulty of sexual interaction with anything covered in spikes.

“Would you have sex with a cactus, Freddie?”

“Well, we’re not talking about cacti, John. We’re talking about hedgehogs.”

“You’re evading the question. I’m going to have to assume you would fuck a cactus.”

Brian groaned, louder this time, and threw off his covers to petulantly starfish across the entirety of his bed. Glaring at the ceiling, helpfully illuminated every couple of seconds or so by Freddie, he shouted, “No one is fucking a cactus!”

The lightbulb chose that moment to blow.

“Shhh,” hushed Freddie, as John made a dismayed noise Brian could only assume was aimed towards his now deceased lightbulb. “You’ll wake Roger!”

“Did Roger,” Brian said slowly, counting the seconds between his breaths and reminding himself that, yes, he honestly did love and cherish his flatmates. “Get in at 5am this morning after working the graveyard shift at the animal clinic?”

“No, but—”

“Roger’s not even here,” said John helpfully.

“Do you know who _did_ get in at 5 this morning after working the graveyard shift at the animal clinic?” said Brian, still stubbornly addressing his side of the conversation to the ceiling.

“Wait, what?” said Freddie, clearly paying absolutely no attention to Brian any longer. “Did he come in last night?”

“I,” continued Brian dully, closing his eyes. “Came in at 5 this morning.”

“Yeah,” replied John, also now ignoring Brian. “He just left early, said he had the rehearsal space booked out. Wants to try and nail that solo for that one we just added my riff adjustments to.”

Brian whimpered.

“Oh,” hummed Freddie contemplatively. “He didn’t mention it.”

He had been too hasty in chucking his duvet on the floor, he now knew. If he sat up to grab it it would immediately be seen as defeat by Freddie and mercilessly seized upon as evidence that he was up. He was not up. He was not planning on being up until at least the early afternoon. Maybe, if he could stretch it, the late afternoon.

“Well,” said John drily, accompanied by the sound of an iPhone being unlocked. “He is a big boy, Freddie.”

Brian dangled his left leg off the side of his mattress. Perhaps he could reach his duvet with his foot while the other two were distracted.

“Hi, darling,” said Freddie, his voice pitched ever so slightly higher as he spoke on the phone. “Give me a ring when you’re free, was planning on doing a wardrobe shuffle this afternoon and getting some newer stuff up online for Boxing Day! It’s only three days away, and I need your eyes. Okay, love you.”

Slowly Brian lifted his foot back onto the bed, the weight of the duvet holding steady on the tip of his toes.

“He didn’t pick up,” Freddie explained to John, although perhaps also to Brian. Brian hoped it wasn’t aimed at him, his hopes now pinned on the two of them becoming so absorbed with their cactus fucking and Roger concerns that they would leave him to his much needed rest.

“You don’t say,” John deadpanned.

Reaching down, Brian began inching the duvet up from where it now lay across his other foot to cover his torso. His mission complete, he relaxed.

“You do know,” said John, amusement lacing his tone. “That I’ve just watched you do all that, right, Brian?”

“Do what?” asked Brian, voice muffled slightly by the comforter which he had pulled all the way up to his face.

“You can’t recall?”

“No.”

There was a pause.

“Well, sweetheart,” said Freddie, now giggling softly. “Luckily Deaky can send you the video, I must admit I think the Snapchat filter he applied makes your Tony the Tiger briefs look quite dashing!”

In a split second Brian was out of bed and, after tripping over the jeans he’d blearily shucked only a few hours prior, wrestling John’s phone from his hand. The video was sent.

“You bastard,” he moaned, thumbing through the screen full of recipients. “You didn’t even set it as your story, you sent it to them all individually.”

“Oh,” said John brightly, grinning at him mischievously. “I also put it on my story.”

“I don’t even know most of these people,” Brian said mournfully, staring down at the phone in horror. Across the room his own phone pinged to let him know he’d received a Snapchat, and at the same time so did Freddie’s.

“Well,” said Freddie, stroking his chin faux intelligently as he leaned against the door frame nonchalantly. “I wonder what this could be?”

Brian watched despairingly as in his hand John’s own Snapchat began filling with replies, “I hate you both.”

John plucked his phone back from Brian and slipped it in the pocket of the robe he was wearing as Freddie waved a dismissive hand, “Oh, pish posh. We’re the light of your life.”

“You’re really not,” grumbled Brian, and turned to go collapse on his bed again. Behind him, John mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “No, that’s Roger,” followed by the sound of a muffled slap. Brian squinted over his shoulder at the both of them only to be greeted by innocently blank expressions.

It’s not as if Brian had any illusions about his feelings for Roger being at all incognito, apart from (hopefully) to the man in question; but he did take solace in the general agreement of his friends and family to kindly not mention it other than Freddie’s occasional pitying glances — ever so helpful in reminding him just how pathetic and useless his affections were, thanks, Fred — and the nudge, nudge, wink, wink nature of his mother’s frequent inquisitions about Roger’s well being.

Unfortunately John hadn’t gotten the message, if his increasingly unsubtle mentions were anything to go by. At least Freddie seemed to have his back, although Brian was admittedly unsure if that was to protect him or Roger. Probably both.

“I’m going back to bed,” he said, deciding it was probably for the better to pretend he hadn’t heard anything.

“Oh, no you don’t, mister!” exclaimed Freddie, darting forward to grab him by the arm just as he went to gracelessly fall back onto his mattress. Brian gazed longingly at his pillow. “There is,” Freddie continued imperiously, dragging Brian from the room and to the kitchen. John followed along behind, prodding at Brian’s backside with his foot when he attempted to anchor himself in the threshold of his bedroom with his slightly heavier build. “A hedgehog on our kitchen table.”

Freddie gestured to said hedgehog as if its appearance was meant to be a surprise to Brian.

Brian knew there was a hedgehog on the table. He had placed it there.

“Yes,” he said.

Freddie looked between him and the hedgehog, and then back again.

“There is,” Freddie repeated, slower this time. “A _hedgehog_ on our _kitchen table_.”

Behind them, John stifled a laugh. Brian shot him a look of despair over his shoulder which was met with little more than a salute of a tea mug that he had procured from the ether of their empty hallway somehow.

“I feel that it’s an important distinction that the hedgehog is in a tank,” Brian pointed out, making a vague rectangular motion with his hands meant to denote said tank. He was choosing to ignore John’s mysterious drink which he was certain he had not had in hand before now. “It’s not just hanging out on the kitchen table having a wander around.”

“Well I should hope not!” Freddie gasped, lifting a theatrical hand to clutch at the lapels of his robe. “That would be quite irresponsible of you, what if the critter fell o— wait,” he frowned suddenly, and cocked his head while he looked at the hedgehog. He paused for a long moment. “Is it still called a tank if it doesn’t house aquatic animals?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Brian asked, confused at both the question and the unexpected turn in the conversation. He had in no way been awake long enough to be prepared for the winding turns any innocuous conversation with Freddie could take.

“I don’t know,” Freddie said with a shrug. “I just always thought tanks were just for fish and the like.”

“Reptiles live in tanks,” John chimed in, standing on his tiptoes to look over Brian’s shoulder. He passed his mug of tea overhead to Freddie who hummed contemplatively as he considered this information.

“Aren’t they aquatic?” Freddie said. He took an absentminded sip of the dregs of John’s tea, immediately screwing up his face in disgust and discarding the mug with a clatter on the table next to the tank.

Brian just looked at him incredulously.

“What,” said John softly, his breath ruffling Brian’s hair. “The fuck are you talking about, Freddie.”

“Reptiles!” Freddie exclaimed, looking at the two of them as if they were particularly dim witted. “They live in water, right?”

“Well,” replied Brian tentatively when after a moment of silence it became apparent that John wasn’t going to take one for the team. “Some of them, yes.”

“And those ones,” Freddie said slowly and patiently, like he was trying to teach basic arithmetic to small children. “Live in tanks. So if it doesn’t have water in it, it’s not a tank anymore!”

Brian turned his head ever so slightly to see John’s face and was not disappointed. John’s face was simultaneously awestruck and also just a hair's breadth away from terror, an emotional combination Brian was pretty sure he’d experienced each and every day since being introduced to Freddie.

“That’s quite the leap of logic,” John said diplomatically following a long pause. “But so completely wrong that the mere idea of trying to untangle it exhausts me.” He shouldered Brian out of the way, brushing an apologetic hand against his hip as he went, and after swiping his mug back off of the table set about refilling the kettle.

“Which means I’m right,” Freddie crowed, with a toothy grin and a ridiculous pose reminiscent of Superman.

“No,” said Brian, shaking his head emphatically. “It means you’re so wrong that it’s easier to just let you continue thinking it than it is to convince you that you’re wrong. Like a flat earther on a cruise ship.”

“Same same,” replied Freddie dismissively with a shake of his hair. “Darling, do make me a cup, won’t you? There’s a love.”

Unhesitatingly John replied, “You have done nothing to deserve such a thing.”

Freddie squawked indignantly as John poured his own single cup of tea and turned around to face them, leaning against the kitchen bench. He raised a single unimpressed eyebrow at Freddie’s theatrics. This, Brian noted with more than a little surprise, seemed enough to quiet Freddie’s loud protestations. It did, however, instead result in Freddie slumping against the fridge with a sulky pout lodged firmly on his face.

“Can I please go back to bed now,” Brian begged, eyeing the clock above the sink with desperation. “I’ve got to leave for my mum’s at 6.”

John shrugged but Freddie shook his head, “Not until we have an explanation for our house guest!”

As Brian opened his mouth to give just that, the hedgehog nudged at its food bowl sending it spinning into the plastic walls of its tank. With a loud clank the food bowl upended, sending its kibble across the floor of the tank. All three of them blinked in surprise at the critter as, following this action, it ambled into the corner and appeared to curl up and go to sleep.

“Ah,” said John, a sly smirk lurking around the corners of his mouth behind his mug as he nodded wisely. “I see now.”

“I’m sure,” Brian said resignedly with a sigh, leaning heavily against the kitchen’s door frame. “That I don’t want to know, but go on.”

“Well,” drawled John. “You’ve been missing Roger so much these past weeks you’ve gone and adopted him in animal form. I can only assume the prickles are to make up for the lack of it’s vocal ability to bitch.”

Freddie let out an inelegant snort, still stubbornly pouting and making mournful eyes at John’s cup of tea.

“Funny,” Brian deadpanned, shooting a halfhearted glare at the both of them.

“I have my moments,” said John with a dry smile.

“Ugh,” exclaimed Freddie, rolling his eyes impatiently at their banter. “You’re both adorable, very funny. Why is there a hedgehog sitting in a maybe-tank, on my handmade tablecloth, on my vintage table?”

“The table that Roger stole from a storage room at uni?”

“Yes, Brian. My vintage table,” Freddie repeated insistently, reaching over to give the table a fond pat. It wobbled worryingly and John lurched forward slightly as if prepared to save the hedgehog at a moments notice. Brian, who had walked in on someone having sex on the thing more than once, knew better than to be concerned.

But that was a lesson for John to learn on his own.

(“Oh,” Brian said, blinking sleepily at Freddie and his latest conquest at the kitchen table. Or, rather, on top of it. He considered briefly leaving, but then remembered the new bottle of cranberry juice in the fridge and decided against it. “Don’t mind me.”

“Do you mind?” said the guy on top of Freddie somewhat peevishly. “We’re kind of in the middle of something here.”

Brian grabbed the cranberry juice from the bottom shelf of the fridge, “I can see that.”

“And yet you haven’t left.”

Brian flapped a hand at the two of them absently and turned to do just that. At the door he paused and the looked back with a cocked head, “Fred, you need to buy more butter.”

“Oh?” Freddie said, a little out of breath. “I thought we got some, ah—fuck, sorry.” His breath hitched as the guy between his legs shifted slightly, seemingly in anticipation of Brian leaving. “I thought we got some the other day.”

“Yeah,” replied Brian, gesturing at the two of them with his cranberry juice. Given the glare the other guy was sporting, he gathered that making his way to the cupboard behind them for a glass wasn’t quite worth the potential for maiming even if this was, in fact, also his kitchen. “And your arse is in it.”)

“Well, there’s a hedgehog sitting in what is definitely a tank, on your handmade tablecloth, on your… vintage table of dubious acquirement because the shelter was going to have to let him face the elements a little earlier than was ideal due to overcrowding. I offered to take him in for a week or so, until he’s up to his natural habitat,” Brian explained, with a rather lacklustre ta-da motion. Worriedly he chewed on the inside of his lip before adding, “I’ll take him with me to my mum’s tonight and through Christmas, he’ll barely be here.”

“It’s not like you brought a cow home with you, Brian. He’s not causing a ruckus, or no more than anyone else does,” John said with a snort, depositing his empty cup in the sink next to him. With a sideways glance at Freddie, still pouting by the fridge, he refilled the kettle and put it on again. He pointed a teaspoon at Freddie threateningly, “You’re getting two sugars.”

“You may as well not bother putting any in then,” Freddie grumbled, a smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re going to lose all of your teeth,” John said, still jabbing the teaspoon in Freddie’s direction on every other word for emphasis. “And I’ll be there at the dentist when they pull them out, laughing at your pain.”

Freddie clutched at his chest in feigned agony.

“The hedgehog mystery has been solved,” Brian interrupted, pushing off of the door frame and looking pleadingly at Freddie. “ _Please_ can I go back to bed now.”

“Oh, honestly,” Freddie sighed, rolling his eyes in such a way as it somehow involved the movement of his entire body. “You are such a drama queen.”

Brian wasn’t going to dignify that with a response, instead dully meeting John’s disbelieving eyes from across the room. John turned to fix Freddie’s tea with a giggle and an extra spoonful of sugar.

“Off you go then,” Freddie said, waving him off. “Ruin your sleeping pattern, see if I care!”

“Thank you,” said Brian, horrified to hear genuine gratitude in his own voice as if if Freddie had said ‘no’ for some reason or another he would have actually just suffered through it instead of telling him to bugger off. Given the quick amused glance John gave him over his shoulder it hadn’t been missed by the other occupants of the kitchen either.

Rather than attempt to recoup any credence he may have had prior to this morning as being someone who was not almost completely at the mercy of his friends whims, Brian beat a hasty retreat back to his and Freddie’s shared room and dove back into bed.

(An hour of staring increasingly frustratedly at the ceiling, Brian gave up and got back up again.

Trudging through the corridor he spared a moment to flip Freddie off through the living room door as he called out a smug, “Can’t sleep, dearest?” and continued into the kitchen clutching the eyeliner he had swiped from Freddie desk-cum-vanity in one hand and his phone in the other.

Bending down in front of the tank he uncapped Freddie’s eyeliner and set to work on sketching out a quick drum kit. Scooching back to give his artwork a proper look he deemed it good enough and snapped a quick photo, taking advantage of the hedgehog’s interest in the goings on on his side of the glass to grab one with his face just peeking over the drums.

Opening Snapchat he captioned it ‘missing you x’ and sent it to Roger.

Maybe, he considered, John wasn’t all that wrong after all.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit weird sorry i had a bitch of a time with it but brian wanted to talk about his feelings first so.... that happened. this has been written in bits and pieces over the course of a few days and not edited so yay! enjoy! point out any glaring mistakes, but i'll probs give it a quick polish in the morning (i just like waking up to comments, sets me up for a good day. im like tinkerbell, i need attention to live). this thing really needs a proper title and summary but fuck it i guess we here for a good time


	6. Chapter 6

Freddie awoke to the sound of the front door slamming shut followed immediately by John’s muffled voice calling out from the other side, “Sorry! See you in a few days!” He lay still for a moment, realising with a pang of annoyance that he hadn’t remembered to ask either John or Brian to replace the blown bulb before they had left.

Fumbling for his phone he checked the time, 10:37, and groaned. Though curtains were wide open it was barely light outside at all, a dim grey light just barely illuminating the room. Swiping over he opened the weather app: sleet. Brilliant. Nothing quite got you in the festive spirit like the great British tradition of half snow, half rain which somehow managed to be worse than either snow or rain by their lonesome.

He was determined one year to whisk he and Roger away to somewhere with proper snow. The heavy stuff that transformed the entire landscape into something magical. Not the snow you got in London which fell unevenly through the smog of the streets, dirtying itself before it even reached the ground and turning to disgusting slush on the pavement. Perhaps next year, if Clare…

He’d heard Switzerland was gorgeous.

He sat up and stretched languorously, allowing the duvet to pool around his legs. Usually they were pretty strict about keeping the thermostat at a low setting, bundling up in jumpers and robes or clutching endless cups of tea to keep themselves warm. John had taken to carting around a hot water bottle encased in a luridly fluorescent fluffy lime green jacket, a housewarming (and hadn’t Roger been proud of himself for  _that_ ) gift from Roger. Roger, of course, curled up on anyone who made the mistake of settling into a seat for longer than five seconds, often also beckoning Cleocatra over for additional warmth. Brian was typically not taken to feeling the cold, and thus had taken it upon himself to guard the thermostat with a seriousness he usually reserved for his various peaceful protests in the name of British conservationism — although Freddie had noticed that he had begun wearing multiple layers of fluffy socks around the house.

As a result he’d bought him slippers for Christmas from Primark. Utterly hideous things, pink with bunny ears and likely to fall apart after a week or so if the £2 pricetag was anything to go off of. Buying presents for Brian was always great fun. You could buy him the absolutely worst things, things he couldn’t help but despise on first sight, and no matter what he’d cart them around for at least three months making a great performance of completely loving them for fear of offending the gift giver. Sometimes Freddie had to stop himself from just snapping up hideous articles of clothing and tacky knick knacks to give him for the hell of it.

(Roger was clearly trying not to stare at Brian in horror as he entered the backroom of the pub wearing Freddie’s birthday gift from months back. Mike had little such compunction or subtlety, letting out a loud snort at the sight of him.

“The fuck you wearin’, May?” their current, and short lived, bass player asked with a grin.

Brian tugged self consciously at the bedazzled denim vest before smoothing his collar with a nervous hand, “Do you like it? Freddie bought it for me.”)

But Brian was out of the flat for the next few days, off celebrating the holidays with his family like John so Freddie and Roger had a respite from his obsessive thermostat checking until at least the 27th, potentially the 28th depending on whether or not Brian and his father managed to avoid the topic of music. The moment Brian had left last night, the hedgehog’s tank-like abode balanced precariously atop his suitcase, Freddie had turned the thermostat up full blast. John had begun complaining of the heat within an hour, but Roger had been sprawled contentedly on the living room floor in a perfect mirror of Cleocatra mere inches away. Freddie had been slipping an extra tenner into the household expenditure jar every now and again over the last few weeks in anticipation of the gas bill which ended up being utterly exorbitant each year.

Cleocatra, until now spread out on the left hand side of the bed and somehow, despite her relatively small size, taking up at least 70% of the available bed space, made an adorable meeping noise and stretched out. Blinking at him accusingly for daring to awaken her with his own movements, she stood and padded over for pats which he dutifully gave her. She purred, nudging at his hand insistently just in case he decided to stop, before her ears pricked at the sound of something only she could hear. With nary a backwards glance she darted off of the bed and out of the door, leaving him sat there alone.

His hand still stretched out he sighed, “Very well, you bitch. Love me and leave me.”

He rolled his neck and gave himself a few moments to breathe. Looking back out of the window he tried to find something beautiful, something that made the day worth beginning. Across the way, he could see a lady walking down the street holding a bright yellow umbrella to protect her against the elements. It made a stark contrast against the grey of the day.

“Right,” he muttered to himself, a ghost of a smile beginning to form on his face as he watched her walk out of view. “Onwards and upwards, dearie. No point wasting the day.”

He got up and started sifting through the clothes piled up on his desk chair for his robe. It was a beautiful piece of clothing, and he’d go to his death insisting that it _was_ silk no matter what the others thought.

(Or the tag, which declared it both machine washable and 80% polyester.)

Having no luck, he sighed and settled for grabbing one of Brian’s many button downs from their shared laundry basket as a suitable replacement. In the dull light of the mid morning he could just about make out the delicate silver threads which made out constellations over the fabric and smiled fondly. Perhaps to make up for the, both cheap and objectively awful, Christmas present he’d stop by the markets after the holidays and see if the stall run by the lovely Croatian couple had any of the velvet flares he’d been eyeing the other week. They had had a pair with planets around the hems which he’d completely forgotten he’d meant to mention to Brian until now.

Shrugging on the shirt he made his way from the room, he noted as he went that Roger’s bedroom door was open— a likely explanation for Cleo’s hasty departure —and gratefully flicked on the hallway light as he walked to the kitchen to pop on the kettle. On the fridge was a note from John with a reminder of when he’d be back, evidently he hadn’t been expecting to make as much noise as he had leaving just before, and the landline number for his parents (‘For emergencies (real ones)’) which made Freddie smile fondly. Despite the shit Brian and Roger had given him for surprising them with a new roommate and, after speaking to John, the manner of his choosing said roommate, he thought he’d done a pretty good job. Some days, as John pottered about the living room fiddling with some random circuit board or when he opened his arms expectedly for Roger to settle into as soon as he entered the room, it seemed as if he’d been around for years not months.

Standing on his tiptoes he grasped around blindly at the top of the cupboard above the kettle, grinning as his hand closed around a small tin which he then opened. Taking a deep sniff of the contents, Brian’s special tea blend, he set about making a cup for himself and Roger. His stash was getting a little low, he noted with a small amount of concern. Brian utterly refused to tell him where he bought the damn stuff, and of course each time he managed to find his new hiding place and squirrel a little bit away for himself the bastard would find a new bolthole.

Briefly, just before he poured the kettle for Roger’s cup, he considered not giving Roger any. Perhaps he could just give him their usual PG Tips and ration the blend a little? But no, he’d be able to smell the fragrance of Freddie’s and know immediately that he was being ripped off. That wouldn’t be very Christmassy of him, Jesus would be ashamed.

He cocked his head, still considering. He didn’t exactly believe in the guy, and Roger was likely to be despondent enough today not to put up a fight over it…

Cleo padded into the room and meowed at him, leaving Freddie with the uncanny feeling that he had been caught red handed doing something which he shouldn’t have. Appropriately cowed, he poured the kettle in Roger’s mug. He looked over his shoulder at Cleo, who was now sat precisely in the doorway watching him impassively.

“Oh, honestly,” he whispered at her, giving the mugs a stir. “I’m not a saint, you know.”

She blinked at him as if to say ‘I know’.

“You’re meant to be on my side,” Freddie grumbled, picking up the mugs and heading over to her. “See if I ever pick you up off of the side of the road again, missy.” He stepped over her daintily and took off down the hallway to Roger’s room, pushing the door fully open he called over his shoulder: “Next time I’ll just leave you to get eaten by, by— by bloody foxes, I will!”

Roger, who was curled up on his side with his phone held close to his face, looked up at him, “Can’t wait.”

“My cat,” groused Freddie, flouncing over to the bed and spilling at least a quarter of his precious tea on the debris of clothing and rubbish which was accumulated on Roger’s half of the floor. “Loves you more than me.”

Roger looked blankly at the mug which Freddie had shoved in his face for an uncomfortably long period of time before moving to accept it with a heavily taped up hand, awkwardly shuffling into a sitting position against his headboard.

“Sorry,” he muttered, shaking his head as if to shake away cobwebs and taking a quick sip of his tea. “She loves anyone who gives her attention, bit like you actually.”

“Budge over, love,” Freddie said, pointedly ignoring his comment. Roger scooted over, lifting the duvet for Freddie to slip under which he duly did. Freddie leant over and gave him a kiss on the cheek, and infusing his voice with more cheer than the dreary mood which suffused the room warranted said: “Happy Christmas Eve!”

Roger gave him a weak smile, an effort which Freddie appreciated nonetheless, and laid his head on his shoulder, “Happy Christmas Eve, Fred.”

“Just us two again this year, I’m afraid,” Freddie murmured, pressing another kiss to the crown of Roger’s head.

Roger lifted his head slightly to press a reciprocal kiss to Freddie’s jaw, “What more could I want?”

“Oh, shite,” Freddie said teasingly, hitting the mattress lightly. “You mean I should cancel the strippers and cocaine for later? I’ll never get that deposit back cancelling this late!” Roger snorted and shook his head slightly, but otherwise didn’t reply. Freddie ran an absent hand through his hair, “Your roots need doing.”

“Can’t be fucked,” Roger mumbled, sounding exhausted even though Freddie knew he’d been in bed early the night before. Though, looking at the amount of tape on his hands, it seemed as if he’d had a busy day rehearsing. The problem was, when Roger got like this he tended to bounce between sleeping too much and sleeping too little. Generally you could tell when it was too little because he became an irritable bitch who was almost impossible to be around, snapping at all and sundry until he’d chased everyone away from him.

(“It’s like,” Roger had mumbled, rubbing angrily at his face as tears he was so obviously attempting to keep back escaped. “I know I’m being a dickhead, and I’m being unfair, but at the same time it’s… I’m testing you guys, I think?”

Freddie could hear Brian slamming around in the living room, most likely cleaning up from the aftermath of his fight with Roger which had devolved into the screaming of ugly insults and the throwing of projectiles at walls. It had ended with Roger in streams of angry tears, Brian not much better, the two of them panting angrily at one another from across the no man’s land their living room had become. He’d told Brian at the beginning of the month to walk away if Roger started up, told him it wasn’t worth getting involved in it, that Roger would probably try and pick a fight. But he supposes it’s hard when you’re used to Roger being argumentative, you’re used to that ebb and flow, and suddenly instead of mercurial temper flares you’re instead faced with a seemingly unending torrent of rage that had no beginning and no end.

“It’s fucking _stupid_ ,” Roger spat, his face screwed up as he tugged at the ends of his hair roughly. He was trying to grow it out again, and it was at an awkward length — just beginning to brush his jawline. Freddie held himself back from pulling Rogers hands into his own, knew it wouldn’t be welcomed. Not right now while Roger was holding himself stiffly apart from him, body angled away. “But it’s like I think if you stay, if you still love me, even when I’m being so fucking mean that I’m making you cry? Then it means you really love me, y’know?”

“You know we love you,” Freddie replied steadily.

“But I don’t!” Roger exclaimed, scrubbing at his face again. “Everything’s just so fucked up, I’m so fucked up when I’m like this and nothing makes any _sense_ , Freddie. I do all these horrible things, and say things that are so fucking… unforgivable. The shit I said in there?” Roger nodded towards the door, strands of hair sticking to the tear tracks he hadn’t managed to completely dry on his cheeks. “That was fucking unforgivable and I said it to hurt him, I did. But I’ll go and apologise and he’ll fucking forgive me anyway, won’t he?”

“Yeah,” said Freddie unhesitatingly, even as Brian continued to crash about the living room. “He’ll forgive you because he loves you.”

“But he shouldn’t,” Roger said, eyes wild and heartbreakingly confused. “I don’t understand how either of you can, can— can love me when even my own fucking _family—”_ )

Freddie hummed, still carding his fingers through Roger’s hair, “Maybe we could do that together today, then? I am better at it than you, the back always ends up uneven when you do it.”

“You’re better than me,” Roger said sleepily, nudging his head into Freddie’s palm when Freddie paused in his ministrations. Freddie bit back a smile as he caught Cleo looking jealous in the hallway. “I don’t deserve you.”

“No man deserves me, darling,” Freddie replied, giving Roger’s hair a light tug and laughing as Roger grumbled a complaint in response. “But of all the men in the world, you certainly come closest.”

Draining the dregs of his tea, Freddie chucked his empty cup atop a small mountain of clothing that sat a foot or so away from the bed. Wordlessly, Roger offered him his own empty cup to dispose of as well. Freddie shifted the two of them down until they were laying properly, grunting softly as Roger accidentally elbowed him in the gut as he rearranged himself to be half atop him.

They lay there together, Freddie resigning himself to a few hours of playing the part of an uncomfortably warm body pillow as Roger dozed. Long minutes passed in silence, Freddie himself close to dropping off in reaction to the lack of stimulation when Roger, who he’d thought long since asleep, said: “Deaky met someone last week.”

Cleo jumped on the bed, kneaded at the duvet for a moment, and settled on top of their intertwined feet.

“Oh?” prompted Freddie, fluttering his eyes open once more to peer down at Roger. Roger’s eyes were fully open, and he looked not the least bit tired despite how long they had been lying there together.

“Yeah,” said Roger, his fingers tracing patterns on the parts of Freddie’s torso which remained covered by the shirt he wore. “He seems right smitten, says she’s aces.”

“Well,” Freddie said with a soft laugh, wiggling his toes against Roger’s own and earning a disgruntled huff from Cleo for disturbing her place of rest. “He’s what? Nineteen? Everyone seems ‘aces’ when you’re nineteen, love. God, do you remember?” He screwed up his face with distaste as a flood of ex-flings from his teenage years paraded in his memory. “He’ll likely have forgotten her by the new year.”

Roger gave him a prod between his ribs, and Freddie squirmed away just slightly before scooching right back to where he’d lain before. “Ah, yeah,” said Roger, with a scoff. “Because you’ve certainly learnt not to be taken in by a pretty face by now, at the ripe old age of twenty five.”

“Oh, shut your face,” Freddie bitched good naturedly, giving him a squeeze. Roger went back to tracing patterns.

“She might last,” Roger said after a lengthy pause, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. Freddie sighed, reaching over to tap at his mouth with one finger causing him to stop. It was a nervous habit he’d had for as long as Freddie had known him. The first time they’d met, Roger had given him a salacious grin from around the straw of his drink at a bar but all Freddie had been able to see was the ragged, impossibly _sore_ state of his lips. The horrendous pickup line he’d been saving had disappeared at the sight only to be replaced with a worried offer of chapstick. The rest, as they were wont to say, was history. “Sorry,” he said, before repeating: “She might last.”

“Oh?” said Freddie, trying to gauge exactly where the conversation was going. “Johnny’s met the love of his at the tender age of nineteen then, has he? Good for him, if only we could all be so lucky.”

“You did say he would,” Roger mumbled, fingers still roving restlessly over Freddie’s side. “When you read his palm, remember? You said he’d meet the love of his life last week.”

“You know I make that horseshit up, darling,” Freddie said with a giggle, brushing Roger’s fringe from his eyes absently. “I just adore how worked up Brian gets up about it,” he gasped, hand stilling in Roger’s hair. “Now, there’s an idea. For his birthday I’ll book him a session with a psychic, he’ll positively _hate_ it.”

Roger buried his head in Freddie’s chest, his shoulders shaking as he laughed.

“We’ll have to coordinate gifts, darling,” Freddie continued, seizing on anything which elicited a positive emotional response from Roger no matter how silly. “You can get him a horoscope subscription! The gift that keeps giving, just imagine watching him open it up every month.”

“One of us,” Roger said, smiling up at him softly as he expounded on the possibilities of Brian’s birthday gift. “Has to get him a gift he actually likes or he’ll start to think we don’t know him at all.”

“Pssh,” Freddie dismissed, waving a hand. “Everything he likes is so boring and proper, no; he needs a little silliness in his life.”

“I think,” said Roger, his hands resuming their idle tracing as his mirth subsided as quickly as it had appeared, dissipating into the air like dust motes. “That’s what he keeps you around for.”

“Rude,” chided Freddie lightheartedly. “But most likely true.”

Roger’s breath tickled along the planes of his chest as he breathed, and Freddie took a melancholy kind of comfort in it. As hard as he knew this time of year was for Roger, and he knew it was truly wretched, he also hated it himself. He didn’t like to bring it up, knew it would make Roger feel even more guilty than he already did, but a horrible restlessness settled under his skin during the winter nowadays. Ever since that year, he couldn’t quell the quiet anxiety that nestled in the very front of his mind all hours of the day.

Brian, and most likely John now too, thought him ridiculous for his mother hen antics towards Roger. They wouldn’t, he was sure, if they knew. Brian probably did know, subconsciously at least. He had been around for long enough, seen more than one of these months the whole way through. But then, maybe it was easier to dismiss the clues that hung around given how seasonal the whole damned _thing_ was. If one of your best friends, even if it is the one who you are hopelessly, obviously in love with, is apparently completely fine almost a solid eleven months of the year perhaps the blip of December was easier to ignore than Freddie gave it credit.

After all, December was a busy time. The holidays, exams, work… He knew how distressingly simple it was for things, people, to slip without you noticing until it was nearly too late.

Which was why the weight of this anxiety sat around his neck for the entirety of the period. He felt as if he had to know where Roger was at almost all times. The only time he ever felt completely at ease was while Roger was right there next to him, breathing the same air. Of course, this also tended to rub Roger completely the wrong way some of the time. On those irritable days, irritable weeks, where he just wanted to be left alone (and, at the same time, never be left).

It was a balancing act, all of it. Every second, he and Roger balancing the weight of the world and what it had done to them both over the years and the ways they could survive it.

Roger mumbled something, his even breathing rolling unevenly over Freddie’s skin and causing him to shudder.

“Sorry, love,” Freddie said, his grip tightening imperceptibly around Roger’s middle. “Didn’t quite catch that.”

“You got mine right,” Roger repeated, his voice still so soft that Freddie had to strain to hear it even with how close they were. “When you read my palm, you got mine right.”

“Did I?” Freddie asked, straining to remember when he had even done such a thing.

Roger had a memory like a venus fly trap. Something would happen and he’d swallow it down taking months, sometimes years, to digest it fully. Swirling it around and around like a never ending gobstopper until he chose to spit it back out, often long after everyone else had forgotten anything had occurred at all. Not quite like Brian, who obsessed over things to the point of insanity. Rather like a treasured heirloom that he kept all to himself, bringing out every now and again to revisit, before turning up on Antiques Roadshow one week and revealing himself the owner of a long lost Renoir.

“Hmm,” hummed Roger. “Right after I did it.”

Freddie froze, his breath stuttering to a halt.

“You told me I’d meet the love of my life that year. That I wouldn’t know straight away, and that it wouldn’t be easy, but they’d be right there in front of me,” Roger’s voice was flat, his fingers continued their movements. Freddie tried to catch his breath. “And I did, and I didn’t know, and I thought it was fucking _Tim ._ ”

Belatedly, so very belatedly, Freddie realised Roger wasn’t tracing idle patterns on him. He was tracing the constellations on the shirt he was wearing. Brian’s shirt.

“Because, y’know, I’m an idiot,” Roger continued, huffing a hoarse approximation of a laugh.

“You’re not an idiot,” Freddie whispered, scared to raise his voice any further in case it broke the careful stillness which had taken over the room as Roger spoke. “But you should tell him.”

“Who?” Roger asked, feigning ignorance as if it weren’t patently obvious who Freddie was referencing. “I’m not telling Tim a fucking thing.”

“Not him,” Freddie said. “That fucker can rot in hell, as far as I’m concerned. I ever see him hanging around you I’ll rip his throat out with my goddamn teeth—”

“Finally,” Roger interrupted, with a laugh that sounded a little less strangled than before. “You admit they’re a lethal weapon.”

“ _Brian_ ,” Freddie continued, not dignifying the joking dig about his teeth with a response. “You should tell him how you feel.”

Roger shook his head violently, and Freddie had to jerk his head back to avoid the possibility of injury. He may have had more than enough teeth, but he really didn’t want to get one knocked out. In his arms, Roger’s entire body trembled.

“I can’t,” Roger mumbled, eyes wild as he looked up at Freddie. “Don’t you understand? I can’t do that, not ever.”

“I don’t,” said Freddie, honestly. “I don’t understand at all. Help me understand.”

Roger pushed off of him and sat up, leaving Freddie to blink up at him in bewilderment. He scrambled into a sitting position as Roger, arms akimbo, exclaimed: “It would kill me! If I just walked up to him one day and said, ‘Hey there, did you know I’ve been head over heels in fucking love with you for _years_ , wanna get married and have ten kids?’ and he said ‘I just don’t feel the same’ with that sad, puppy dog look on his face?”

Freddie watched him warily as he ran a shaking hand through his own hair, leaving his fringe sticking up in tufts.

“That would fucking kill me, Fred,” Roger said, breathing erratically as if he had just finished a marathon. “Because it would never be the same, not after that. He’d feel guilty that he didn’t love me like I love him, and he’d start pulling away and I’d have to watch him leave me.”

“He wouldn’t,” Freddie said softly, reaching over to rub his thumb in soothing circles on Roger’s bare knee. “He wouldn’t leave because he’s just as embarrassingly in love with you as you are with him, darling,” Roger closed his eyes and shut his eyes, shaking his head. “Trust me. You have no idea how sickening it is to watch you both moon over each other. It’s like watching Love Actually, but I can’t fast forward through the shit bits.”

“You mean you don’t enjoy sitting through my yearly mental breakdowns?” Roger asked sarcastically, spreading his arms wide. “Fuck, I for one am having a grand bloody time.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Freddie said, voice hard and cutting. Roger shrunk back, his sudden burst of anger cowed, and nodded. His entire countenance now once again pathetically miserable, Freddie grappled at his arms to pull him in for a hug.

“I just can’t,” Roger mumbled into his neck sounding distressingly defeated.

“Okay, my love,” Freddie said, rubbing at his back. “That’s okay.”

“Nothing’s okay,” Roger replied, burrowing in closer to Freddie as if he hoped he could climb right underneath his skin. The imagery was off putting, but Freddie couldn’t help but think if he ever managed he’d never have to worry again. He reluctantly pulled back and stroked a tender hand over Roger’s cheek.

Pulling him forward, he rested them together. Forehead to forehead he said with a smile, “Yeah, that too.”

Roger laughed, a real one that seemed to surprise him just as much as it surprised Freddie. He pulled back and rubbed an hand over his face, wincing at the scratch of the tape.

“God, you’re going to have to do my hair,” he said, adroitly changing the subject and avoiding Freddie’s eyes as he tried to pull himself back together. Freddie let him, there was no sense in pushing. “I’m not gonna get very far with my hands all bandaged up like this.”

“You look a bit mummified, to be honest,” Freddie agreed, amused. “You can tell you did it, you always go a bit overboard.”

“Well,” Roger sniffed, tossing his hair in a lame attempt to copy Freddie’s signature prissy move. Given the fact that his fringe was still stuck up in tufts all about the place he looked more than a bit ridiculous. Freddie kindly didn’t laugh. “At least when I do it the tape stays on, unlike some other people sitting on this bed.”

“Oh, get fucked you little prick,” Freddie laughed, and got off of the bed holding a hand out to pull Roger with him. “I’ll remind you of this the next time you ask for help.”

“No, you won’t,” Roger replied, a smile on his face as he laced his fingers with Freddie’s and made no move to stand.

“No, I won’t,” agreed Freddie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, i know, what the fuck is happening???? two chapters in just over 24 hours????? what????? ... i really need to start writing my thesis that's due in like three months but instead i'm doing this!!!! hmu if y'all wanna write it for me, just a cool 20k words of research on Mary I i'll thank u in my dedications page xxx
> 
> also apologies to tim staffell who is the poor fucker playing the asshole in like... every single fic that involves roger and romance. according to google he's rich though so i don't feel too bad
> 
> it is... 6am. i am going to bed now


	7. Chapter 7

John leaned against the makeshift bar next to the fireplace and tried desperately not to look awkward. Freddie had dragged both him and Brian along to a friend of a friend’s New Years party, pointedly ignoring Roger who had insisted he had his own plans until he’d cancelled them with a long suffering sigh. No one could ignore you quite as loudly as Freddie could, it seemed.

(“Are you going to put on a shirt?” Brian had asked, a soft blush emerging on his cheeks as he watched Roger dab glitter onto his torso with the precision of a preschooler let loose on a freshly painted wall with a permanent marker.

Tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth, makeup sponge in one hand and a bottle of Sainsbury’s finest (cheapest) vodka in the other, Roger had scoffed, “Of course not.”

Brian, grabbing the vodka from Roger and taking a hearty swig, nodded: “Right, right. Okay then.”

Freddie, fussing over his eyeliner behind Roger as they shared the hallway mirror, met John’s eyes and shook his head with a sigh. John felt a deep kinship borne from months of shared suffering spark within his soul, knowing ever so briefly that in that moment they were connected on a deep emotional level. Then Freddie had proceeded to attempt to wrestle the glitter from Roger, sending the both of them and, most importantly, the _glitter_ sprawling across the hallway in a cacophonous discordance of shouting and laughter.

John, with the full knowledge of just who it was that was going to be hoovering the hallway carpet tomorrow morning, snatched the vodka from Brian hands, “I hate you all. So fucking much.”

Freddie, now sat smugly on Roger’s legs and leaning back contentedly into the impromptu cuddle Roger had decided to turn their floorside rendezvous into, had grinned up at him, “You bloody love us, you little tart.”

John had softened imperceptibly, a soft smile creeping onto his face at Freddie’s unabashadley toothy grin. It was good to see Roger and Freddie back to their normal selves. The past few days had been tense following a screaming match on the balcony which John had caught the tail end of as he’d trudged back from his mum’s after Christmas. The subject of their argument he wasn’t a hundred percent sure on, but he had an inkling it had something to do with Roger’s newfound dedication to heading into their rehearsal space every damn day for hours on end and the, now ubiquitous, presence of heavy bandaging covering his hands.

John smiled at the sight of the two of them helplessly entwined together on the floor. Which was, of course, when Roger chucked a handful of glitter with impeccable aim right into his face.

“You didn’t see that coming?” Brian said, an eyebrow raised as he took advantage of the mirror now being free to fiddle with a curl in his fringe that had dried at an odd angle. He curled it around his finger before letting it spring free, frowning slightly as it returned to exactly the same odd place it had inhabited before. John flipped him off before bending down to scoop up some glitter of his own and pouring it straight over his curls.

“You didn’t see that coming?” John repeated drily as Brian gaped at him.)

Despite promising numerous times not to leave him alone at the party Freddie had disappeared within seconds of stepping through the door, hurriedly promising he wouldn’t be long, before calling out an exuberant greeting to a group of women John had never seen before in his life and skipping over to join their tight huddle by the ridiculously opulent staircase. Brian had absconded next with a hurried, “Shout me a text if you need me.”

That had been over an hour ago.

Surprisingly, Roger had stuck by him the longest. He’d dumped the Sainsbury’s vodka on the table, where, John had noted with some amusement, it joined at least twelve other identical bottles, before hunkering down next to a bowl of suspiciously coloured punch. For every cup he’d taken, which had been more than enough to have John looking on in a combination of awe and concern, he’d added a splash of a randomly selected bottle. By the time Roger had stumbled off on his own the punch was potent enough to have John’s own eyes watering from several feet away.

A woman was perusing the beverage selection with a serious look upon her face which clashed just a tad with the monochromatic yellow bodysuit she was sporting. John tried not to stare, a hard feat considering just how _bright_ her ensemble was. She moved to grab for the punch ladle.

“I really wouldn’t.”

She turned to look at him, giving him a scrutinising once over that had him trying not to shrink back in embarrassment. There was something about a woman in head to toe yellow that was, on reflection, quite intimidating. In John’s general experience women were intimidating enough in normal clothing let alone when dressed up as some kind of genderbent Big Bird.

“Sorry?” she said, looking distinctly unimpressed in that way women have that has you considering the potential benefits of monasterial solitude or, at the very least, vows of silence.

“The punch,” John stammered, gesturing at it with a jerky hand. “My friend kind of put… well, _all_ of the booze in it.”

“That’s sort of the point, mate,” the woman replied, pouring herself a cup of the vividly purple liquid with a heavy hand. John winced as she took a hubristically large sip and then hurriedly spat it straight back into the cup, gagging. “Holy mother of fuck,” she gasped, grabbing at a bottle of tonic water and gulping some down. “What the _fuck_ is that?”

“Uh,” said John, pushing himself off of the bar and hesitantly reaching out. He pulled his arm back, unsure as to what exactly he could do to help. “Pretty much every single liquor on the table. And also whatever was originally in it.”

She stared at him, eyes wide, before looking back to the punch with the appropriate amount of fear, “Does he want to die? That—” She pointed, her hand shaking, at the punch bowl. “Is how you die.”

John scratched at his neck uncomfortably, “Jury’s still out on that one.”

Belatedly he realised his tone had been a little too flat to pass for a joke as she quirked an eyebrow at him, and his brow furrowed slightly as he rolled the thought around his own mind. Huh. That was… he didn’t quite know where that had come from, or what to do with it now it was there. Fuck. He’d known Roger was _depressed_ but that was. That was something a whole lot more. He scanned the room, avoiding her gaze as she squinted at him.

“Right, I’m not touching _that_ with a ten foot pole,” she said, shaking her head determinedly. “It’s New Years, hun. I’m here to get wrecked, not play therapist.”

With that said, she grabbed a bottle of tequila and took off. John watched her flounce through the crowd with a touch of bewilderment feeling a bit like he’d had an encounter with some kind of cryptid being. Perhaps this was how people felt after meeting Freddie, Roger or Brian for the first time? Looking back now all he could really recall of the experience was a sort of resigned perplexity; when life deposited you in the lap of Freddie Bulsara you sort of just had to thank it and try to keep up. Of course, if you were in the lap of Freddie you inescapably found yourself the bedfellow of Roger, who in turn carted Brian around in the cusp of his hands like a secret in a crowded room.

No, he decided. Big Bird couldn’t quite compare to his three… flatmates? Bandmates? Friends.

“Darling!”

John wasn’t entirely sure how long he’d been standing, staring into the distance and considering his potentially earth shattering understanding of just what the fuck was going on with Roger. But now Freddie was standing in front of him, dramatically posed with a cocktail —acquired from God only knew where given that he’d have certainly noticed Freddie approaching the makeshift bar before now— with a somewhat apologetic look upon his face.

“I’m so sorry for fucking off,” Freddie continued, dropping his pose to slink closer. “Unfortunately Brian ran into an ex of his and I had to run interference before Roger saw,” he rolled his eyes and allowed his arms to fall, his cocktail sloshing down his bare forearm. He paused to lap up the alcohol as it pooled in the crook of his arm, “And then Mary introduced me to this absolutely _lovely_ little thing…” Freddie trailed off with a suggestive wink.

“... Yes?” said John, absently tracking a flash of blonde hair in the background.

“Called Veronica?” Freddie continued, blinking up at him innocently as he draped himself about John’s person. He slurped up the dregs of his cocktails and passed the empty glass off seamlessly to a passing man who accepted it without question.

John straightened abruptly causing Freddie to slide off and stumble ungracefully as he righted himself to stand unassisted on his own two feet, “Veronica?”

“Yes,” drawled Freddie, quickly abandoning his theatrical frowning at such rough treatment. “ _Veronica_.”

John swallowed heavily, once more scanning the room though this time for a completely different set of blonde hair, “Oh.”

Freddie raised his eyebrows expectantly. John desperately avoided eye contact.

“For heaven’s sake,” Freddie sighed, reaching behind himself to blindly grope for a bottle from the bar. Triumphantly he brandished a bottle of gin, and after taking a hearty swig, he continued: “The sweet thing said she’d met you before, would you believe?”

John closed his eyes briefly. Wishing for death, or a sinkhole, he asked, “Really?”

Opening his eyes he saw Freddie looking at him with sheer exasperation, “Sweetheart.” Freddie shoved the bottle of gin at him, and John took it eagerly. “I honestly have enough of this bullshit with the other two,” Freddie went on, gesturing for him to drink. He did so. “I do not need this from you as well. I cannot _handle_ this from you as well.”

“I,” said John heavily, gasping slightly as the gin burned its way down his throat. “Am not pretending not to be in love with someone who is also pretending not to be in love with me.”

“Once upon a time,” Freddie replied, pulling a cigarette out of thin air and lighting it with a flourish. “Once upon a time,” he repeated, taking a drag. “Roger and Brian merely fancied the pants off of one another, and I,” he shook his head, looking into the distance. “I, the naive fool I once was, I thought they would shag and it would all be well.”

Desperation lined his eyes as surely as the eyeliner he had painstakingly applied earlier in the evening as he met John’s gaze heatedly, “And _yet_.”

John stayed silent, taking another hearty gulp of gin.

“ _Yet_ ,” Freddie repeated when it became apparent that John was not going to contribute anything, shoving his cigarette in John’s direction haphazardly with little to no regard given to the ash being liberally sprinkled on the expensive looking carpet between them. “It has been two bloody years and the two of them continue to act like fucking morons and so, John. I tell you this: not again.”

He squinted at John who, in an act of cowardice, took a long drag of the proffered cigarette. After contemplating John sadly for a moment, he suddenly shouted: “Roger!”

Like a bad penny, Roger appeared from the crowd decidedly more drunk than he had been when he had stumbled off into the party. John had to admit that feat was a disturbing cross between admirable and very, very worrying; Freddie, however, seemed unconcerned by Roger’s inebriated condition, even as he stumbled over thin air, which led John to conclude that he had most certainly been in worse states and still woken up the next morning.

“I have news,” Freddie stated theatrically, throwing an arm across Roger’s shoulders. He was, John noted, now adorned with some kind of fluorescent paint which had been applied in haphazard patterns across his entire torso.

“Do you think,” slurred Roger blearily, clearly having paid no attention to anything other than the calling of his name. He tugged roughly at the ends of his hair. “That I should cut my hair shorter again?”

“No,” said Freddie sternly, slapping at his hands. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Roger flinched at the action, his hands dropping from Freddie’s reach quickly, “A’right.”

“You hated having short hair,” Freddie continued, following the movement of Roger’s hands like a hawk. They had been heavily bandaged ever since John had come back from Christmas at his mum’s, with Roger mumbling vague excuses about practicing a drum solo whenever any of them had asked about it. Freddie, John had noticed, had been getting gradually more and more concerned about the continual presence of the bandages as the days had gone on. This had, in turn, caused both himself and Brian to become suspicious. Drummers, John knew, often had issues with their hands if they played too hard for too long. It was, however, a little odd that Roger was having problems now when when they weren’t preparing for or playing any gigs.

In the meantime, John’s eye was caught by something in the background. “You said you’d only ever changed anything about your appearance to suit the desires of a man,” Freddie said, clearly parroting something Roger had told him more than once, brow furrowed as John gawped at the spectacle going on behind him. “And that you’d never do so again because you had agency over your own body.”

Roger looked distinctly uncomfortable, lunging forward to steal the gin from John’s lax hand.

“I remember,” Freddie said with a frown, watching Roger gulp down some of his stolen gin. “Because Brian and I had to veto that song on bodily autonomy being added to the set list.”

Roger shrugged.

“Bodily aut—aut _onomy_ is overrated,” Roger mumbled, gratefully taking the end of the cigarette that John offered him. John gestured behind them to Freddie, eyes wide, as Roger busied himself with a desperate drag of the smoke.

Freddie, vaguely confused, looked back. His arm still around Roger, he quickly turned back and met John’s gaze panickedly. Behind them, up against the staircase, stood Brian locked in heated snog with another man.

Another man with, ever so coincidentally, short blonde hair. Although John noted, somewhat judgmentally, that this other man was wearing a shirt. He wasn’t quite sure when that became a negative character trait, although if he was being honest with himself it was probably right about the time Roger had pulled him enthusiastically to the next door neighbours front door and begged, very prettily, to buy that spare mattress off of her for a tenner and a promise not to bring a screamer home for the next three months.

(“To be honest, mate,” Roger had huffed with a grin, shoving at the second hand mattress as it got stuck in the bedroom door. “I’m the screamer.”

“Right,” said John faintly, giving the mattress a half-hearted tug while wondering if jumping on the first flat he’d been offered had been the wisest choice. Especially considering the dubious origins of the furniture which comprised the supposedly ‘fully furnished’ room he’d applied for.

“If we’re to be roommates,” said Roger, giving one rough shove which shifted the mattress finally fully into the room. “You should know this.”)

“Veronica!” Freddie shouted out of the blue, grasping at Roger’s chin as he went to look at what the two of them had none too subtly been silently communicating about.

“Ah,” exclaimed John, jumping onto the topic with reckless abandon. “Yes, Veronica!”

“Veronica,” echoed Roger around the stub of their shared cigarette, his chin still firmly in Freddie’s grip, sounding distinctly unimpressed as his eyes darted between the two of them. “The bird you met at the pub the other week?”

“That’s the one,” John agreed, nodding ever so slightly too enthusiastically as he tried not to watch Brian stick a hand down the back of the trousers of his hook up. Freddie, apparently no longer feeling Roger attempting to turn his head, let go of Roger’s chin. “She’s here.”

“So,” said Roger bluntly, sounding abruptly a hell of a lot more sober than he had just moments before, as he chucked the butt of his pilfered smoke into the punchbowl. John was faintly surprised it didn’t burst into flames. “Is Brian and the bloke he’s snogging that you’re trying not to let me see.”

John looked at Freddie haplessly.

“Oh,” said Freddie brightly, his smile just a touch too wide with a sharp edge to his voice, removing his arm from Roger’s shoulder. “I thought we were pretending that that wasn’t an issue and that you weren’t considering changing your physical appearance to match Brian’s chosen man of the night in some misguided attempt to be what you think he wants! Just like we’re also apparently ignoring—”

Roger took a deep drink of gin and stared determinedly at the floor, interrupting whatever Freddie was about to say with: “You’re making John uncomfortable, Fred.”

“Sure,” muttered John, nervously appraising the tension radiating off of his two flatmates. “ _Freddie_ is making me uncomfortable.”

Roger’s eyes darted up to look at him, his face suddenly stricken, “Shit. I’m sorry.” He stumbled away from Freddie completely and over to the bar where he deposited the bottle of gin, fumbling about in his back pocket to extract a carton of smokes. “ _Fuck_ ,” he swore, lowly, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. “I’m sorry,” he repeated again, lighting his cigarette and taking a drag. “Ignore me, I’m being a drunken arsehole. I told you I shouldn't have come out with you guys. It’s new years, we should be celebrating.”

Freddie looked like he was gearing up to argue, which John knew would most likely end in the two of them screaming at one another anew. Brian had seemed rather shocked to hear of their last bout, confiding to John that he’d never heard them argue like John had described in the past. However, John had done his best to avoid thinking back to that conversation, given how it had ended.

(“I could hear them from the bus stop,” John said lowly, leaning around the hedgehog’s tank which had returned to pride of place on the kitchen table. “They were really going at one another. They stopped when they heard me walk in. Well, Freddie did. He left.”

“Jesus,” said Brian, rubbing absently at the back of his neck. “I don’t get it. Freddie and Roger don’t argue like that.”

John stirred his tea, “Well, I mean… Roger’s been a little odd recently.” He could admit, at least to himself, that he was fishing a little now. “Maybe it was something to do with that?”

“No, I mean,” Brian sighed, his eyes darting to the hallway nervously despite them having the flat to themselves for the morning. Freddie was working and Roger was, once again, at the rehearsal studio. “They don’t argue like that. They’re like bloody siamese twins, even when Roger is like this. Which he is, I mean,” he paused, seeming to search for words. “I told you, remember? That he gets a bit weird—”

“This isn’t ‘a bit weird’, Brian,” John interrupted, his patience with the whole charade growing thin. “This isn’t a bad mood, this isn’t even a bad _week_. He’s been like this since mid-bloody-November.”

Brian swallowed heavily, acknowledging the hit with a shaky nod of his head, “I know. But, Roger’s just like this over Christmas. He just _is_. Freddie looks after him for a few weeks, and then he’s back to normal for the most part.”

“And you’re fine with that?” John asked incredulously, shoving himself backwards into his chair and crossing his arms. He watched Brian shift nervously over the top of the tank, the hedgehog snuffling away in the corner it had claimed as its makeshift bed. “I don’t get it, Brian,” he continued, genuine confusion coloring his voice. “I don’t get how you’ve seen this happen — more than once!” his voice rising in volume as he continued, frustration building with the whole situation. “More than once you’ve seen this, and you just… don’t question it. Freddie will deal with it, you can just ignore it and in a couple of weeks it’ll all be bloody _hunkydory_.”

“That’s not fair,” Brian whispered miserably, ducking John’s attempt at eye contact to watch the hedgehog.

“What the fuck is going on,” John finally demanded, spreading his arms wide to demand Brian look at him. “What the _fuck_ have I gotten myself involved in here, exactly?”

“I don’t know!” Brian shouted, shoving himself out of his chair with enough force to send it skittering against the benchtop behind him with a bang. John looked up at him with surprise. “I don’t _fucking_ know what’s going on, alright? When it happened the first time I didn’t know them well enough to ask, and now I’m too fucking scared to,” he paced about, his breathing heavy before he stopped abruptly and faced John again. “So, there we go. I’m a fucking coward, are you happy now?”

“No,” John said, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. “I’m sorry.”

“We’re all fucking _sorry_ ,” Brian said heavily, shaking his head. “But I don’t see you doing anything to help Roger either, so maybe think about that glass house of yours before you start throwing stones at me, eh?” With that said he stalked out of the room.)

“Let’s celebrate, then,” John said, shooting Freddie a warning look as he opened his mouth. “This music is bloody awful, though.”

“God, isn’t it?” Roger agreed, his eyes just a tad too bright as he jumped upon the new topic eagerly. He took another deep drag of his smoke, “They’ve got some old, overpaid fucker on some decks in the main room. Bougie looking wanker.”

As he spoke, the song switch over to a club remix of Ariana Grande’s latest top ten hit and John breathed a sigh of relief at the timing.

“Oh, fuck me,” groaned Freddie predictably, rolling his eyes.

“You never know,” John said brightly. “A remix might just be what this song needs!”

“Can’t hurt the composition any,” Roger agreed, a lazy smirk curling around the corners of his mouth as he watched Freddie expectantly. Sobriety had settled about his shoulders like a cloak, and not for the first time since meeting him John was left feeling more than a tad awestruck by the sheer amount of liquor required to get him drunk and keep him there.

As Freddie had told him the morning after their first bar crawl: The devil worked hard, but Roger Taylor’s liver worked harder.

“I just don’t _understand_ ,” Freddie wailed, snatching Roger’s cigarette from his mouth as he went to take another drag. He inhaled the smoke somewhat desperately, “The poppet has an absolutely _gorgeous_ voice, amazing range! And she just… wastes it.” Next to him, Roger was mouthing along to every word. “On these utterly shite songs!”

“A tragedy,” John murmured drily, shooting Roger an amused look under his eyelashes.

“You can’t just rely on vocal range to cover up lazy writing!” Freddie exclaimed, stabbing the cigarette in his hand at John to emphasise his point.

“I would never,” John assured him, laying a hand over his heart and widening his eyes to play act at innocence. Freddie squinted at him suspiciously as the music played on. Somehow, John had to admit, the remix was indeed actually inferior to the original song.

“Fuck this,” Freddie said. “I can’t take it. I refuse to take it. No one here,” he side-eyed Roger for a moment. Tilting his head, he hummed contemplatively as he considered him before finally shaking his head, “No.  _No one_ here deserves to have their ears assaulted by this shite.”

With that, he flounced off and into the crowd his stolen cigarette waving about in the air wildly as he pushed his way through the throngs of people half heartedly bopping about, “Out of my way, out of my way! I said _move_ , you silly cow. What are you dressed as, a Teletubby?”

“You’re welcome,” John said pointedly to Roger who shot him a grateful smile in return. They stood in silence. “Well,” John drawled, shuffling his feet uneasily as the silence stretched between them and Roger showed little to inclination to end it. “This is… fun.”

Roger snorted indelicately, raking a hand through the hair he had painstakingly arranged _just so_ earlier in the night. “Wanna get shitfaced?” he asked.

“God, yes,” John sighed, lurching for the previously abandoned bottle of gin desperately.

* * *

Somehow, and he honestly could not tell you how, two hours later John found himself doing a two man conga line about the dance floor with Roger to the pounding beat of ABBA’s Voulez Vous. Roger had at some point picked up a multicoloured wig, reminiscent of those worn by circus clowns, which had almost certainly destroyed his styling attempts from earlier in the night.

“Voulez vous, AHA!” belted Roger in front of him, kicking a leg enthusiastically before taking a deep drink from the bottle he had clutched in his fist. In a fit of either genius or madness the two of them had premixed two litre bottles of tequila sunrises at the bar-cum-trestle table to save time; they weren’t so much tequila sunrises as they were half a bottle of tequila with a splash of Sunny D, but Roger had looked so proud of his creations that John hadn’t had to heart to point out that they were the alcoholic equivalent of Frankenstein’s monster.

They tasted of regret.

John chugged a few mouthfuls.

“This one,” shouted Freddie from his place behind the DJ deck which he had commandeered from the hired DJ following his attempt to play another Ariana Grande remix. “Goes out to you, Deaks!”

Dancing Queen began playing. Around them several of the hipper looking attendees groaned at the second ABBA song in a row.

“It’s fucking ABBA,” Roger slurred, breaking away from John’s grip on his hips to lurch aggressively at a well pressed bloke who had been complaining about the music choice. “Who doesn’t like ABBA? Wanker.”

John grabbed onto his arm and pulled him away before the other guy could respond, “You don’t like ABBA, Rog.”

Roger stumbled briefly at being unexpectedly moved before righting himself and peering up at John blearily, “Yeah, but. It’s fuckin’ _ABBA_.” He waved his arms in the air wildly for emphasis, only just missing hitting a passing woman in the face. It was fortunate, John noted, that he’d almost finished his ‘tequila sunrise’— if he hadn’t the poor girl would have almost certainly have been wearing half of it. Given how much nylon she was sporting, he wasn’t sure she could take being any more flammable.

He was sure he had Freddie’s influence to blame for his ability to tell that her dress was a nylon-cotton blend from several foot away.

“Even if ya don’t like ‘em, you still love ‘em,” Roger continued earnestly, transitioning seamlessly into the macarena even as he spoke. “Fuckin’ Dancing Queen could start playing at my bloody funeral and I’d get up an’ dance, mate.”

John began doing the macarena also.

“Amen to that,” he said. The logic Roger had applied to the situation was, in John’s eyes, utterly flawless.

Freddie up behind the DJ deck joined in the macarena, the original DJ looking incredibly depressed from where he was slumped on a chair to the side.

(“You,” Freddie said, pushing the poor man aside. “May sit there and think about what you’ve done.”)

“My new years resolution,” Roger said, jumping around. The macarena appeared to be catching on in a way their sad, although enthusiastic, attempt at a conga line had not as several other party goers began joining in. “Is to suck the dick of a man called Björn.”

“Oh?” said John, circling his hips energetically and jumping also.

“Yeah,” said Roger, adding an impromptu slut drop to the dance and somehow not messing up the remainder of the sequence. John was reluctantly impressed by the ease with which he’d executed the move. “Can’t remember the names of the other fuckers, but I’m pretty sure one of them was called Björn.”

“I’m called Björn,” said a guy just in front of them, leaning into the space they’d carved out to dance in.

Roger, without pausing, looked him up and down with an unimpressed look upon his face: “Sure you are, babe.” Then, perfectly in time, he jumped around to face the other way.

John giggled, stumbling to turn around.

Roger looked at him and shook his head, still macarena-ing, “Like I can’t tell a fake-ass Björn from a real one.”

“Fake-ass Björn!” John shouted, still giggling as he struggled to catch up to the dance sequence. Sober he would have merely skipped ahead to where the rest of the dancers, now the majority of the dancefloor, were up to. Three quarters of a way through his drink, which he was now thinking may have been the best tequila sunrise he’d ever had, however, it made more sense to him to speed through all of the moves he’d missed to reach where they were at instead.

The music suddenly cut off, to the audible displeasure of those on the dancefloor.

“Shut up!” shouted Freddie into a microphone he had acquired from God only knew where. “Shut. Up. You fuckers! It’s nearly the countdown, you inebriated shitheads!”

“Don’t understand why we can’t still macarena,” grumbled John, though he took the opportunity to speed through the rest of the dance a couple more times until he thought he’d matched where the other’s had gotten up to.

“Right?!” Roger whined, cocking a hand on his hip as he pouted. Around them people scrambled to find a partner.

“You gonna be my new years kiss, Rog?” John asked with a laugh, pursing his lips at him comically.

“And here was me hoping I was in with a chance,” came a voice behind him.

Roger grinned, “Aaaand that’s my cue, I think.” He stumbled off towards the DJ deck. Freddie, still stood behind it so as to protect it from being assumed once more by the man actually hired to play it, pretended to reel him in.

John turned slowly, trying desperately hard to appear slightly less utterly annihilated than he felt. Facing Veronica he held his arms aloft in celebration for having made the turn without stumbling.

“Well done! You made it,” Veronica said, a bright grin on her face. She looked perfect.

Given that on John’s last trip to the loo he’d found himself staring despairingly at a rainbow patterned dick drawn onto his neck in permanent marker, painstakingly signed (also in rainbow pattern) by Roger, he had little hope that he looked anywhere near as good.

“I made it!” John exclaimed happily, and just a touch surprised. He paused, and held the remainder of his drink out to her, “Tequila sunrise?”

“Where the hell did you find grenadine?” Veronica asked, taking it from him and looking impressed. She took a sip, swallowing with a grimace. “Scratch that. More importantly: how much of this have you had? This is bloody toxic.”

“Roger made it,” John said, as if that were an explanation. To be fair, if you knew Roger it was.

Veronica looked at the bottle for a moment before shrugging and taking another swig: “Should have had him making my drinks tonight.”

John leaned in slightly. Or rather, he tried to. He overshot and ended up almost nose to nose with Veronica instead. She looked somewhat charmed, so he decided against apologising, “You’d be on the floor if you had.”

“You’re still standing,” Veronica shot back, looking him up and down. In the background the crowd began counting down.

John leaned even further forward, resting his arms on her shoulders and letting his weight fall almost entirely onto her even as his feet stayed planted firmly in place, “Am I?”

**EIGHT**

Veronica met his eye steadily, “Hmmm.” Then: “You never texted me.”

“I was gonna,” John said, shuffling forward until he was pressed almost entirely against her. “But then I thought, y’know. Better not. What if you didn’t text me back?”

**FIVE**

“I was waiting for you to text,” Veronica replied, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Oh?”

**THREE**

“Yeah, bu—” John cut her off with a kiss. It was short, barely more than a swift brush of citrus scented possibility; the kind of kiss that whispered _I’ll see you soon_ as your partner waltzed out of the door, leaving you pressing wistful fingers to the ghost of their presence imprinted on the all of a sudden too dry skin of your lips. Around them the party erupted into cheers as the new year rang out, and Veronica exhaled a soft breath in the shared space between just the two of them.

“Happy new year,” John said, moving his hands from her shoulders down to her sides and curling his fingers into the curve of her hips.

“No text, but a kiss?” Veronica asked feigning displeasure, though the grin she was sporting gave her away.

“Go in how you mean to go on?” John said cheekily, rubbing absent circles onto the small of her back as he pulled her flush against himself, his grip tightening as one her hands found its way onto his arse and gave him a quick grope.

“I expect,” Veronica said mock seriously, leaning up to give him another kiss. This one lingered on, and John couldn’t help but deepen it. He groaned as she nipped at his bottom lip before drawing back again to smirk at him, “A text tomorrow.”

“You can have a bloody singing _telegram,_ ” John promised, determinedly ignoring what sounded like Roger trying to start a chant of his name from the front of the room.

“I’ll hold you to that, _Deaky_ ,” Veronica laughed before reaching up to pull his lips back to her own.

(“Uh,” Veronica said, rubbing sleep and the remainders of the previous night’s mascara from her eyes as she squinted at the two blokes at her doorstep. “No offence, but it’s 9am on New Year’s bloody Day. This better be good.” She paused, “Someone had better be dead.”

Both of them looked pretty haggard. The blonde was missing a shirt and was absolutely covered in paint, and though the man with the darker complexion appeared to be in possession of all of his clothing he _was_ having to hold onto the door frame to stay upright. They looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite place them.

They stared at her.

“Fuck,” she swore, straightening up and pushing her fringe from her face. “Is someone dead? I’ll feel like such a wanker if someone is actually dead.”

“Are you Veronica?” the blonde asked, scratching absently at a flaking stroke of paint directly above his left nipple. He didn’t _look_ like someone who would be sent to inform a loved one of the recent death of a friend or family member, but then she supposed that the emergency services were probably a bit swamped, and definitely under funded, over the holiday period.

“Ye-ees,” she said hesitantly. “Look, sorry, but can you just confirm whether or not anyone is dead?”

“Well, dearie,” said the fully clothed man, looking up at her through his own heavily dishevelled fringe. “Unfortunately, given the mortal state of all beings it’s an inevitability that someone is, at all times, dead and/or dying. We, however, have not been sent here to deliver the news of someone’s passing as of this very moment in time.”

She blinked at him uncomprehendingly. He stared back.

Blondie continued to scratch at his chest.

“It’s, like, stupid o’clock in the morning and I’m still a bit drunk,” Veronica said slowly. “I’ve got not fucking clue what you just said, but I’m gonna guess no one is dead—”

“Well, no,” he interrupted. “I actually said that people are definitely dead.”

“ _What?_ ” Veronica exclaimed, moving to grab her coat from the rack behind her.

“No!” shouted the blonde, shoving the other man’s head into the door frame none too softly. “No one is dead!”

The other man, the one wearing clothes, rubbed at the spot on his head which had connected with the door frame sulkily as he muttered under his breath.

“Okay, sorry, Fred,” the blonde rolled his eyes, and held out his arms towards Veronica in a calming motion. “People, in general, are dead. But,” he met Veronica’s panicked eyes. “No one you know.”

“ _Well_ ,” started his counterpart, a somewhat snooty look upon his face.

“Fred,” blondie said slowly, calmly, and with the unspoken promise of much violence being held tightly under control. “If you don’t shut the fuck up you’re gonna spend the first day of the year in the fuckin’ A&E, mate.”

“At least they have beds there,” ‘Fred’ mumbled mulishly, crossing his arms and looking for all the world like Veronica’s fifteen year old sister when their mum had told her she couldn’t dye her hair pink over the winter holidays.

“What,” interrupted Veronica as the blonde man opened his mouth quickly to retort. “The _fuck_ is going on and why are you at my bloody door?”

Fred opened his mouth, shutting it with a clack of his teeth when the blonde guy elbowed him sharply in the side. “We’ve been sent,” blondie said heavily, running a hand through his messy hair. “To sing you a song.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lmao so. ive had about 300 words of this written for the past week and a half but then i hated everything and so i finally lost patience with myself and got very drunk tonight and forced myself to write. so. if there are any huge mistakes it's cause im a tad bit fucked at the moment??? let me know. probably won't edit because i hate this chapter so very, very much
> 
> no disrespect to ariana grande but tbh................
> 
> also i have most definitely started both a conga line and the macarena to completely unrelated songs at parties before. the macarena _does_ catch on better for some reason. imagine if i posted when it wasn't 2-4am in my timezone. imagine,


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> high key warnings here: graphic description of mental state of depression, very much so drawn from personal experiences. previous chapters hints of self harm/suicide attempts a little more indepth here!
> 
> also secondary character slur against trans/non binary persons half way through
> 
> sorry.

In the ancient and medieval times, Brian had once whispered to him in the darkness of their living room, people believed that each person was a microcosm of the universe at large. They believed in a symbiotic relationship between the body and soul of each mortal being and the eternal; each turn of a planet, each star in the sky, every meteorite turning to ash in futile attempts to breach the atmosphere and become one with the gardens of Eve — all the mysteries of the cosmos were reflected in the fumbling forms of mankind. Brian’s face had been shrouded in shadow, just barely illuminated by a string of mostly dead fairy lights Freddie had shamelessly stolen from the storage closet of the design school’s resident communist club, and it rendered all his sharp edges oddly muted as if the night had come to make him in its own image: hazy and beautiful; immeasurable and indistinct; dangerous and home.

Brian had huffed a laugh, a mellow sound which unfurled velvety smooth in the air between them where they sat, legs crossed and facing one another on the beat up sofa that so desperately needed replacing. Watching him in silence, Roger’s fingers had itched for the old acoustic guitar that lived under his bed with the need to immortalise the ways in which Brian reverberated through the very essence of him; the pads of his fingertips tracing the chords he could play in homage to even just an echo of his laughter.

Wasn’t it just so typical, Brian asked, for humanity to assume some kind of divine connection to the majesty of the universe? Wasn’t that arrogance just… so par for the course.

Nodding shakily, Roger had exhaled and felt the world breathe with him.

 

* * *

  


“I’m off out!” Roger called, a little quiet in the hopes he’d go unheard.

“Wait!” Freddie shouted from the living room, the faint sounds of him scrambling to untangle himself from his current knitting project reaching Roger’s ears. Roger bolted out the door and, forgoing the lift, darted down the stairwell two at a time pretending not to hear Freddie calling his name from the stoop of their front door.

It was the ninth of January, and all told Roger was growing concerned. Kind of. It was hard, you see. Because usually a week into the new year? The funk that settled over him cold and unforgiving during December would lift with the first traces of spring on the horizon; all those new beginnings taking root under the ashes of the previous months, lifting him up and whispering a soft melody of _maybe’s_ that rendered the expanse of tomorrow’s a promise instead of a threat.

But it just wasn’t happening.

He shivered and tugged his jacket tight across his chest, holding it closed with crossed arms as he ducked his head against the sharp bite of the wind which lashed his hair about his face like a whip. The jacket was his only by ways of adorning his person — he had stolen it from Brian’s closet in a petty attempt at exerting an ownership that existed only in his own mind back onto both the jacket and the man who had worn it on New Year’s. He did that sometimes. Small things, petty as all hell and indiscernible to anyone but himself, that let him claim just an inch of possession over a man he knew could never, would never, be his.

Like now, for instance: he dug a carton of smokes from his back pocket, one hand still holding the jacket closed, and on taking that first breath he imagined the scent of his Marlboro’s clinging to the soft folds of Brian’s jacket for the next couple of weeks. The sweet haze of nicotine soothed over the rough edges of his nerves like the first snow of winter, blurring the sharp borders of the city’s skyline with a canopy of deceptively aesthetically pleasing flurries.

Smoke and snow were the same like that: they both left you breathless in the end.

It didn’t really matter anyway, he hadn’t been able to catch his wind for weeks on end now. Every time he thought he was close — bundled up on the sofa on top of Deaky mindlessly consuming the trashy reality telly his roommate loved so much; or watching Brian coddle his hedgehog at the kitchen table, now so far past being a temporary house guest that Brian’s earnest promises to release him into the wild tomorrow, tomorrow, always tomorrow had been met with an exasperated smack around the back of the head by Freddie just that morning — with something close to contentment coating his tongue like honey, all of a sudden it would trickle away leaving him choking on its absence. And with that absence came a kind of emptiness that sat heavy around him, shackling his wrists and ankles with an almost tangible weight that promised to drag him down into that same inky darkness which had sparked at the bottom of his lungs and now threatened, with the dangerous patience of that which would one day not be outlasted, to engulf him entirely.

And he was worried. Or, no. Not quite. Not worried, but aware that he _should_ be which just contributed to a buzz of vague anxiety that had his fingers trembling around the filter of his cigarette and left him feeling exhausted, bones hollow and rattling about like one of Freddie’s thousands of pairs of maracas. Cheap and ineffectual, good for a bit of flash every now and again but not much else.

Usually getting through the holiday period was a question of putting one foot in front of the other. It was a tightrope act, to be sure, but one that he knew had a deadline. It always felt interminably long for the duration but it was survivable with the knowledge that no matter what it would be over soon.

It had never lasted this long.

The horizon of _soon_ was stretched out in front of him like a mirage in a desert: tantalising; sweet; out of reach. He felt as if he were stumbling about in the unknown — each day he woke up and found himself still languishing in the tides of apathy was another yard added to the rope which grew thinner beneath his feet, soft silk turning to razor blades the longer he spent trying to keep his balance.

And all along: Freddie, stood below, his face crumpled with the shadows of monstrous _defeatguiltfear_ that had been the ultimate outcome of his last, his first, foray into the unknown. Of course, that time he’d been left floundering with the awful sense that he’d blown everything out of proportion when not a week later, spent squirming under Freddie’s gaze and the persistent itch of skin learning to stitch itself back together, the emptiness had dissipated into the ether — abandoning him with an abrupt kind of cruelty to the consequences he had rendered in its thrall.

When it was there, that unshakeable accediac poison which pooled in all his nooks and crannies syrupy thick and enticing in all the worst ways, the consequences didn’t matter. No, that wasn’t quite right. When it was there and he didn’t know whether or not it would ever end: that was when the consequences didn’t matter. When the expanse of tomorrow’s had remained a threat and the horizon unaware that soon was a possibility to be dreamt off, the consequences hadn’t mattered in the slightest. The allure of relief was too sweet a balm to be surrendered for fear of the possibilities that failure held.

A drowning man will cling to life on any buoy to be found; sometimes the water is his own mind, and sometimes the life raft is no friend of life at all.

But after that first year, when the fog had lifted before his stitches were even out leaving him tracing the puckered edges of ragged skin and not knowing how the fuck he’d managed to fuck up this bad, _soon_ had been the covenant upon which his balancing act had depended. Soon, the curtains would lift and the darkness would creep in only for days at a time instead of the interminable weeks of December which dragged for an eternity. Soon; soon; soon: the litany by which December would pass in a haze of hours, and days, and weeks which all felt the fucking _same_.

He felt like the world was turning and he was stuck stationary. Everyone going about their days, their lives, and here was him: watching, waiting, holding on with fingernails cut to the quick in the hope that the sharp sting of pain might push through the murk of nothingness that kept him stuck feeling like a tourist in his own body. December was being dumped in a foreign city with no map, trying to follow the tracks made by the locals hoping in vain that there would eventually be a signpost in a language you understood; every time he tried to talk it felt like there was a barrier distorting his every word until it was all gibberish.

It wore him down. Every year, the end of December was like coming up for air just when he was on the verge of giving up. Lungs burning, the edges of his eyesight going sun bright and raw; January was a shoreline that he was never 100% confident he’d reach.

And the thing was: he’d forget. During the rest of the year, when the dark times came along so rare and fleeting, he’d forget just how goddamn unendurable it was. Almost as if his mind was trying to protect him from the truth by drawing a line under the whole thing; nothing to see here, move along. And then it would happen again and he’d find himself flat on his back, struggling to breathe with a black hole for a mouth.

Because it wasn’t sadness. Sadness he could deal with, sadness was something that could be weighed and measured. Sadness gives way.

This was not sadness.

This was the absence of sadness; the absence of everything. A numbness that began in the soles of his feet and spread along his nervous system like black ice on a country road: slick, dangerous, invisible. The type of absence that leaves you desperate for anything that could fill the void, anything that could make you feel something. The type of absence that left something that tasted almost like anger, but not quite, at the back of his throat when he looked at the people still in his life who could feel something. The people who were feeling something when he couldn’t feel anything at all.

That kind-of-almost anger was like a banked fire at the base of his spine, waiting. A sleeping dragon which awoke and set the fields ablaze in white hot fury, burning itself alive for a split second of warmth and leaving him shaking in the corner, panting with the exertion of just that moment of _something_ — fading with each wildfire that scorched the landscape again, and again, and again until bringing life back to the once fertile land seemed more a myth than an eventuality.

And so here he was: bone tired in the way that had him feeling as if he were already sinking down into a grave, his skin sloughing off and abandoning him to the elements, taking hit after hit that gnawed at him parasitically and trying his best to hang on for a soon that appeared no closer to him now than it had weeks ago.

(“We can do this, darling. We’re going to do this together, okay? I’ve got you.”)

He clenched his fist around the lapels of Brian’s coat, and blood bloomed bright against the hasty bandaging that covered his knuckles in a mockery of self care. Swallowing heavily, he sucked desperately on his cigarette — the smoke growing ever more acrid as he worked it down to the filter eager as a babe to the bottle.

A woman pushing a pram and headed towards him wrinkled her nose before crossing the street to continue on her way. He pulled out another cigarette.

(“We’ve just got to get you out, yeah? Fuck, I’m sorry I haven’t been ‘round. We’ll just get you out… of your own head, out of this shithole of a flat. It’s going to be okay.”)

The problem with being human was that in the end all of the things that skirted closest to self destruction were inevitably those which made you feel most alive.

(“Drumming? Right, alright. A band I’ve been following for a bit, they’re looking for a drummer! We’ll get you an audition, yeah?”)

All those actions, inactions, and strange inbetweens that had skin splitting over bone, bile spilling over porcelain, and teeth harsh against your neck — those sensations which could jolt you, if only for a moment, into something _transcendent_ — none of them were good for you.

Sometimes he wondered if his first forays into drumming — eleven years old and pressing pudgy fingers to the bruises on his upper arms, marvelling at the dull sparks of pain that followed like fireworks going off under his skin to the exact beat of his heart — had been symptomatic of just how fucked up he’d be a few years later. Remembering the scoldings for picking at scabs; fingernails digging into blisters with a regularity that meant calluses never had time to form; the rush to the hospital when he was fifteen and one of his sticks shattered, a splinter lodged in the soft skin of his elbow for two weeks the size of a golf ball by the time his Ma caught sight of it as he came out of the shower.

Remembering that, he sometimes thought that maybe drumming had perhaps been a controlled exercise in self destruction that he’d just ended up falling in love with along the way.

(“Sorry, mate,” said Tim as he’d walked in ten minutes late without a care and slipping seamlessly into the cocky, arsehole mode that had slowly, over the course of six months, ended up making Roger feel like a speck of dirt whenever it was directed at him. “The pre-op counseling is next door.”

Roger had paused just briefly where he was fiddling with the hi-hat before straightening and looking over at where the two of them were standing, Tim smirking and Brian fiddling with the list of hopeful’s uncomfortably, a spark of _something_ flickering in the pit of his stomach and—

  
  
  


Oh.

Well that explained that.)

And so here he was: hurrying down the high street on a Thursday night on his way to drink, and smoke, and probably fuck someone with Brian’s jacket still on his back because in the midst of the mess and the chaos of the night he might just feel something that could keep that soon on the horizon.

 

* * *

  


Someone was knocking on the door. Roger smushed his face further into his pillow, lips smacking as he breathed in deeply. One of the boys would get it.

Something tickled at his nose and in his sleepy haze he was faintly amused at the snuffling noise that emerged from his throat as he scrunched up his face to escape the sensation. In the background the faint knocking continued.

“Roger?”

Roger pouted and, trying to snuggle down into his bed, frowned. Blinking sluggishly he took in his surroundings: the bathroom. Well, that explained why his pillow was shoving fibres up his nose — it was the bathmat.

“Rog?” It was Deaky. Roger groaned and rolled onto his back, starfishing up at the bathroom ceiling. The room swam. On the plus side, he considered, there were no sticky patches which suggested he’d actually managed to reach the toilet before he’d passed out.

It was the small victories.

“Rog, if you don’t answer I’m gonna have to break the door down,” he sounded anxious, still tapping an uneven beat lightly against the door.

“I’m alive,” Roger said, surprised at the raspy quality his voice held. Closing his eyes again he rolled his neck, his hair rubbing against the bathmat staticky-slick and making him shiver at the sensation. The tapping continued. “I’m alive!” he said exasperatedly, just a little louder, not making any motion to move from his place on the floor.

“Okay,” said John softly, the tapping stopping its frenetic, though light rhythm, against the door. “Could you let me in?”

“Ugh,” moaned Roger, throwing a haphazard arm over his eyes to block the disconcerting swaying the room appeared to be determined to do. “Why?”

There was a thud against the door, and Roger jumped just a little.

“Because,” said John, his voice lowering even further to the point where Roger had to strain to hear it. “‘ _I_ ’ _m alive’_ is not all that reassuring and if you don’t let me in I’m gonna go tell Freddie you didn’t get in last night ‘til gone 4,” he paused, the silence hanging heavy in the air. “And that you’ve locked yourself in the bathroom.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Roger groaned, dragging himself up into a sitting position and glaring at the bathroom door. “Alright, you bastard.”

He leant over, considering how cramped their bathroom was it wasn’t all that much of a stretch, and twisted the door knob which allowed the mechanism to unlock. He slumped backwards, falling against the rim of the bathtub, and let his head fall back again — the dizziness falling over him like a wave.

“Roger?” John hissed, anxiety still colouring his voice.

“It’s fucking open, Jesus,” Roger snapped wearily, half-heartedly trying to keep the irritability out of his tone — he knew John didn’t deserve it, but all the same it would be easier to give into annoyance over him not noticing the door knob unlocking than it would be to reassure him. As the door swung open he reached over and flushed the loo; it didn’t _smell_ as if he’d ended up spewing in it and passing out before flushing, but just in case.

“Hey,” said John, squinting at him in the relative darkness, exposed now by the light streaming in from the hallway, of the bathroom. “Are you alright?”

Roger let his eyes close again, head hanging back over the edge of the bath, “I’m fine.”

“Ro—”

“I said I’m fine!” Roger interrupted, just the wrong side of calm and a little too loud for the soft early morning light spilling in from the hallway.

John flinched, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind him, “Shhh. You’ll wake the others.”

“Right,” Roger scoffed, picking absently at a scab that was peaking out of the bottom of the bandages on his right hand. He played at bravado: “As if they didn’t hear me stumble in at fuck o’clock this morning.”

It was difficult in a way. The utter absence of feeling left him defensive; in such a short amount of time the apathy became synonymous with his fucking identity — the idea of anything peering through and making eye contact with whatever it was he’d become was _terrifying_. On the one hand, it was better that he push them all away while he still could; better to make them hate him than to have them sitting in a hospital ward with red rimmed eyes looking desperately guilty as if they could have somehow stopped him. On the other, all he wanted was someone to clutch his hand and tell him they’d fix everything and he could just rest a little while.

“They didn’t, actually,” Deaky said, leaning up against the closed door. “Because I told them you were in bed already. Had a long day, a meeting with your academic supervisor.”

Roger rolled his head around until it was upright, facing John nonchalantly, the vodka from the night before still swirling about in his bloodstream and leaving everything just slightly trivial: “And am I supposed to thank you for that lie on my behalf?”

“Don’t be a dick,” John replied, tone flat and unimpressed. He shoved off from the door and stepped over Roger’s splayed legs to reach the sink where he proceeded to squeeze toothpaste on his brush and set about his dental hygiene routine. Roger watched, stuck half way between confused and relieved; the inevitable result of spending the last few weeks being treated like a bomb just a hairbreadth away from going off.

He wasn’t particularly fond of been treated with kid gloves, but at the same time he knew his behaviour rather deserved it. John’s abrupt affected detatchment, towards his own state if not that of Freddie and Brian, was at once both a welcome calm and an abrasive simulation of indifference that seemed altogether insincere — an attempt to treat him normally — and also potentially, and vaguely alarmingly, altogether _too_ sincere.

After all, Roger couldn’t help but think, if he were in John’s position would he have patience for the utter fucking disaster that was Roger Meddows Taylor as a roommate? Probably not.

Head lolling over the rim of the bathtub he watched John absently. He couldn’t help but think that he was so very young, even if he were only three years younger than himself. Letting his eyes trace the vestiges of puppy fat that clung to the edges of John’s cheeks he couldn’t remember ever looking so young. He knew he had, God knew he’d certainly been told so more than once. Even now it wasn’t uncommon for him to find someone double checking he was over age before buying him a drink, just in case. In those instances he tended to take the drink and bolt; why the fuck would you approach someone you weren’t sure was over eighteen on a night out?

Fuck that.

Perhaps he just felt older than he was. Perhaps he’d been older than he was ever since he’d first dug his fingers into matching bruises curling around his biceps, feeling the way his body shook in a cheap imitation of force that had had him falling to the floor more evenings than not.

Sometimes, looking at the soft curve of John’s cheek, he found himself thinking _you wouldn’t have made it out_. But then sometimes, looking at the soft curve of his own cheek in the mirror, he found himself thinking _have you made it out?_

John washed out his mouth, spitting mouthwash into the basin and letting the tap run just long enough to clean the basin in the way that Brian liked. He peered at himself in the mirror for the moment, eyebrows pulling into strange shapes as he stared into his own eyes, before shoving away from the counter in a sudden movement and offering Roger a hand up.

“Come on,” John said, his mouth all soft around the edges in the way that made Roger want to simultaneously curl up around him to protect him from the world and also display him from atop the highest skyscraper in the whole damn city as proof that something, in this disaster of a planet, was worth preserving. He wished, often, that he could say the same of Freddie and Brian but they had been around for too long; Freddie had Roger entwined in his very fucking soul, and Brian…

Maybe Brian was pure enough to be preserved, if he were being honest. But in the name of honesty, Roger just wasn’t quite good enough a person to let him go.

“Let’s get you to bed before Freddie sees the state of you,” John continued with a terrible kindness which breezed against him with all the delicacy of a hurricane, knocking down the barriers he’d hastily erected as if they were little more than dust in the wind. “We’ll never hear the end of it, better to sleep it off and to pretend all is okay a bit later in the morning.”

“Is that what I should do?” Roger mumbled, stumbling as he stood. He leant his entire weight onto John with little shame, the movement that propelled him into an upright state of being also upending his entire centre of balance. “Fake it til I make it?”

For some reason the sentence sounded completely absurd and so he laughed, too loud and too sharp. It echoed through the silent flat as John’s hand, the one not looped around his waist for Roger’s own vertical integrity, slapped harshly against his mouth to stifle his laughter. The hand clasped tight around his waist, fingers digging into almost matching bruises on his hips he only just remembered receiving, tugged him along to their shared room and he allowed himself to be dragged somewhat complacently only pausing briefly to coo over the picture that Cleo made curled between a pair of boots abandoned next to their bedroom door.

Cleo blinked up at him lazily before turning to curl away from him. A laugh tugged at his diaphragm once more, but as John tugged him through their bedroom door he reconsidered letting it loose. In their bedroom it was much too likely to transform into tears, which would likely become something more, and on and on it would snowball until Freddie and he were curled up upon a horizontal surface for several days while Roger tried to put the parts of himself back together that had shattered apart during a storm he couldn’t even fully remember.

John sat him down on his bed, and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, ducked forward shyly to peck his forehead, “No.”

Roger blinked slowly. Exhaustion, his old friend, appeared to be catching up with him once more. “No what?” he asked, slow and quiet and so very confused all of a sudden. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep.

“No faking it,” John said soft but steady, pushing lightly at his chest until he toppled backward into his sheets.

Roger snorted, curling up around his pillow, “And what do you suppose this is then, Deaky?”

“This,” said John, chucking him under the chin with a tap of his fingers; he had one hand curling just slightly too tight around his wrist for all of a split second before he let go as if zapped by static shock. He seemed to recover quickly and his hand returned to rub soothing patterns over the delicately uneven skin there. “Is me faking it for you. It’s a one of a kind deal, won’t happen again.”

“Hmmm,” hummed Roger, sleep washing over him anew. “‘Thar so.”

And John, sat on the edge of the bed with the fingers of one hand carding slowly through Roger’s sweat-sodden strands, the fingers of the other tracing a puckered straight line, thought that maybe this was exactly how Freddie had found himself in his own situation; holding onto secrets that grew on and on in size and severity until dropping one meant dropping them all, and dropping them all meant dropping Roger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was................. a fucking nightmare. im actually mentally pretty good (for me) atm so trying to write this took a lot because, well. as roger says: you forget what its like when it's not there. 
> 
> uh. so many of you were asking for a bit more.............. of an answer of what is going on with roger and while i couldn't exactly give away his underlying trauma without......... y'know moving to resolve it i thought i'd delve further into his current trauma lmao. i sort of like this, i sorta hate it. sigh. next chapter will be less exposition a) because plot and b) because exposition literally takes me fucking weeks to write.
> 
> comments give me life! also: come say hi over on tumblr? haha i’m at @ candidroger


	9. Chapter 9

“Oi,” said Brian. John tensed at the harshness with which he had barked out the syllable, darting a quick look up under his bangs as the concentration he had been affording the textbook on his lap became quickly smothered by the tension in the room that, in all honesty, he hadn’t picked up on before now. “Roger.”

Looking at Brian now he wasn’t sure how he’d missed it. Brian was practically vibrating on the sofa where he was sat stiff as a board, arms crossed, and glaring mulishly at the muted television — a concession, John assumed, to his own studying in the corner — and, most telling of all, until now _silent_. Brian wasn’t generally all that good at silence. It had taken John by surprise at first, but for all that Brian gave off soft quiet energies he was exceptionally bad at comfortable silence. So much so that John had found himself more than once amusedly considering the possibility of Brian, on one of his long nights of stargazing, talking to himself for hours on end. Compulsively polite, Brian couldn’t help but try to start up a conversation at any given opportunity even if that opportunity consisted of nothing more than the absence of him having started one yet.

Behind Brian Roger was frozen half way into the kitchen, and he winced as he turned toward the living room wearing what he’d left the flat in two days ago and sporting a truly impressive hickey in the hollow of his throat that looked almost painful in the way it stood out: the array of purple and red hues a violent juxtaposition to the smooth cream of the surrounding skin. John hadn’t heard him come in, but given the state he’d arrived in he guessed that was most likely intentional — he might have gotten away with it, late as it was, if Brian hadn’t been so clearly lying in wait for him.

“Yeah?” Roger asked, his voice sounding more than a little wrecked as if he had chainsmoked his way through an entire pack of smokes or— actually, no. Looking at the bruising at the base of his neck John decided he didn’t want to follow that train of thought.

“You borrowed my jacket without asking,” Brian said, still glaring straight ahead of him at the television.

“... Yeah?” Roger replied, confusion creeping across his face as he stood awkwardly in the doorway. John had to admit to feeling a little confused himself. Roger hadn’t worn a jacket out the other night. If he had borrowed Brian’s jacket without asking and then fucked off for a couple of days, okay fair enough, perhaps Brian had a specific outfit plan in mind. But Roger hadn’t worn a jacket when he’d left the other night, Freddie half-heartedly following him to the door with a selection of scarves clutched in one hand and left looking utterly dejected as the front door had been slammed in his face.

Which meant Brian must have been talking about the jacket Roger had worn out almost a week ago. Which was… odd.

Made odder by the fact that his three roommates honestly had, until now at least, shown no inclination towards boundaries when it came to dipping into one another’s closets whenever they felt like it. For the first couple of months of living with them there had been one particular cardigan whose actual ownership John could not have told you if his life had depended on it, so often was it passed around.

In fact, he was wearing it right now. He’d picked it out of Roger’s clean laundry pile with nary a second thought that morning after his own options had shored up little in the way of lounge wear.

“That’s it?” Brian scoffed, turning his head ever so slightly to shoot an unimpressed look Roger’s way. Catching sight of him, in his rumpled clothes and unwashed hair that all but screamed he’d been up to little good, he rolled his eyes and shook his head. His lip curled in distaste as his eyes caught on the discoloration staining Roger’s throat, his breath stuttering for less than a beat as he ground his teeth. “Of course it is,” he said dismissively, turning to face the television together and slumping down churlishly.

Sat in the armchair in the corner of the room in sweatpants and a cardigan stolen from Roger, his textbook splayed open on his lap and an empty packet of crisps crinkling between the leg he had tucked under himself and the soft fabric of the seat, John couldn’t help but feel that he’d accidentally set up camp in No Man’s Land; watching Roger’s jaw work as he shifted on his feet, as if he were trying to decide whether he should stay or fight, and knowing as he rolled his shoulders that the shells were about to go flying.

And sure enough: “What’s your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” Brian sneered, giving up the pretence of paying attention to the telly and unfolding himself from the sofa with a calmness only betrayed by the way his hands clenched into fists as he turned to face Roger fully. “I think we all know I’m not the one with the fucking problem, right, Deaks?” he shot over his shoulder towards him, cocking an eyebrow at Roger.

John didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Roger’s face shuttered, the tired confusion which had been lingering on the planes of his face bleeding away and being gradually replaced with a slow-burn anger. He wasn’t sure how, but he could tell it was a different anger than that which had had Roger storming out of the flat two days prior when Freddie had hesitantly suggested that they should perhaps extend their performance hiatus a little while longer, worried gaze trained solely on Roger’s terribly sore looking fingers as he’d hurriedly insisted they may need more time for John to learn the songs. Roger’s eyes skittered over to meet John’s own and John was taken aback by the flash of _fear_ he saw lurking beneath the thin veneer of anger that he’d hastily pulled over himself.

John ducked his head and absently trailed a finger across the page of his book; he didn’t want to get pulled into whatever Brian’s issue was. Maybe if he sat very still and made absolutely no noise they might forget he was there, his textbook provided potential protection if things started flying.

“Don’t pull him into this,” Roger said lowly, gaze flicking back to meet Brian’s and finally stepping fully into the room. “You’ve got a problem? Fine. Don’t put your shit on him.”

“Ha,” Brian laughed derisively. His posture, John noted as he chanced another peek upwards, was slouched nonchalantly in a way which reminded him strangely of his short lived attempts at teenage rebellion a few years earlier. Every line of his body positively screaming _fuck you_ , veiled only thinly by the faux casual nature of his stance. “Sorry, sorry,” he said sarcastically, the calming motions he was making with his hands a mockery of those that he quite often made in earnest. “Just a bit rich, isn’t it, Rog? You telling _me_ not to put my shit on other people when you’ve got us all walking on eggshells around you.”

“I didn’t fucking ask you to,” Roger snapped back as he frustratedly pushed back the sleeves of his shirt which had fallen to his wrists as he’d stepped into the room. The assorted bracelets he was in the habit of wearing jangled with the movement. “I never fucking asked any of you for shit, so don’t you go throwing any of that crap in my face and calling it a bloody favour.”

“God, are you really that fucking self absorbed that you think whatever’s going on with you doesn’t affect the rest of us?” Brian asked, setting his hands on his hips and settling into the pose he favoured whenever he was feeling particularly self righteous.

“What have I done that’s _affected_ you so much, then, huh?” Roger said, his cheeks flushed and gesturing to himself erratically. “I haven’t even fucking been here for two days, so what have I done?”

“I don’t know, Roger. What have you done?” Brian muttered harshly, ducking his head slightly when Roger told him to speak up, not having caught what he’d said. John, sat carefully motionless and pretending he didn’t exist, wished he were so lucky. “You took my bloody jacket without asking,” he said instead of repeating himself, lame despite the heat he put behind the words.

Roger blinked at him in disbelief, “Are you joking?”

Brian set his jaw defiantly.

“Are you joking?” Roger repeated, his tone incredulous as he looked at Brian. “Are you actually screaming at me in our living room—

“Oh, sorry, Freddie,” Brian said, interrupting him. “I didn’t realise it was time for the dramatics. I am not screaming at you.”

“ _Screaming_ at me in our fucking living room over a borrowed jacket?” Roger finished, making a show of looking Brian head to toe. “Pot, kettle, black. That’s my fucking jumper, mate.”

Brian paused, looking down at himself. A smug smirk worked its way onto Roger’s face as Brian tugged awkwardly at the too-short sleeves of his borrowed jumper. Brian looked back up, zeroing in where Roger was now rubbing absently at the hickey on his throat, and like the flip of a switch the tension that had drained from him in the face of Roger’s argument swelled again, and he stood straight.

“Maybe so,” he said, tone flat and deceptively calm. “But I’m not going to return it stinking of cigarettes and covered in lipstick. If you want to wear it tomorrow you can do so without looking like you let some random whore wear half your outfit.”

Roger reared back as if he’d been slapped, eyes wide: “Wow.”

“Not that,” Brian stuttered out, realising that he’d just gone too far. It was if, in John’s estimation, he’d taken note of the line and then decided to pole vault across it. For his own part, John had now given up on pretending to study and was watching the both of them cautiously. “Not that _you’re_ a— I didn’t mean—”

“No,” said Roger, faintly; fingers pressing hard against the hickey at his throat as he swallowed thickly. “No, I think you were pretty clear about what you meant.”

“Roger,” Brian tried again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“No,” Roger repeated, steady and strong this time as he nodded. His eyes were fixed firmly on the floor, his hand now an open circle at the base of his neck as if he were trying to hide the evidence: “I’m a self absorbed whore. I got it. Loud and clear, Bri.”

Brian reached out. Somehow, while John had been desperately pretending he were anywhere but in the room with them, they’d gravitated closer to one another in the course of the argument; inching closer even as they threw out words and insults meant to push the other back. His fingers brushed the back of Roger’s hand that hung by the his side and Roger flinched back, slamming into the open door behind him. The door swung wildly, knocking into the stand they kept precariously stood behind it and sending a small mountain of vinyls, books, and other debris crashing to the floor, the force with which Roger had propelled himself into it causing it to ricochet closed.

“Don’t,” Roger panted, snatching his hand to his chest where he cradled it. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Brian, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted, took his hand back.

“Fuck,” croaked Roger, one hand at his heart and other at his throat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_!”

John held his breath.

“Fuck!” Roger shouted, a ragged hysterical noise that had John’s own lungs aching in sympathy. A flurry of movement, almost too quick for John to follow, and the floor lamp was crashing against the far wall followed quickly by the small coffee table they used to store music sheets. “Fuck!”

The door creaked open, Freddie rubbing at his eyes as he blinked blearily at the scene in front of his just as Brian opened his mouth, his expression already curdling with regret even as he said: “Ah, yes, solve everything with violence. Tell me, is that the Taylor way or are you just special?”

The problem with Brian, John thought, was that he just couldn’t bloody help himself.

“Brian!” Freddie snapped looking all of a sudden wide awake and stepping fully into the room. He met John’s eye, concern colouring his features. He supposed he himself probably looked a sight, curled up in the corner watching everything go down but he shook his head, he was fine. Instead, he gestured towards Roger who was now shaking like a leaf in the wind as he stared at Brian, horror carved into his expression.

“I’m sorry,” Roger whispered, a harsh juxtaposition to the previous level of noise he’d been producing. Now holding himself with his arms tight around his middle, as if he were trying to contain something he was afraid might burst out of him, he looked as if he was attempting to make himself disappear. It was awful in so many ways, John realised, to see someone who was so much larger than life look so small.

Roger took up a room in even in his sleep, small snuffling noises and open ended nonsense conversations that often had John watching him fondly in the half light of the early morning before their alarms went off.

It almost hurt to watch him make himself that small.

Freddie’s attention was wrested from John and onto Roger, like a homing beacon.

“Rog?” Freddie said softly, hands kept squarely to himself as he turned to him and took a couple of steps closer to him though between them he left still a good amount of space. “Darling, why don’t we make you a nice cuppa? I won’t even put any sugar in it, my treat.”

Roger shook his head, eyes darting between Freddie, Brian, and John, and then back again. His breathing was more than a touch erratic, and John found himself having to hold back from rushing over to try and shield him from view. Roger almost looked as if he were having a panic attack, brought on by what John couldn’t begin to guess. Presumably something Brian had said, but John couldn’t remember anything specifically terrible after the comments which had led to Roger’s quick bout of characteristic rage.

For his part, Brian looked as if he were about to cry as he stood on the middle of the room with his hands limp by his side as he watched Roger and Freddie impotently.

“Rog?” Freddie said again. His brow was creased as he peered at Roger worriedly, his fingers twitching at his side as he clearly fought the temptation to reach out and give physical comfort.

“I’m sorry,” Roger repeated, this time a little above a whisper. “I can’t, I’m sorry. I just— I can’t do this right now,” he brushed past Freddie, recoiling ever so slightly at the contact such an action necessitated before hurrying down the corridor.

A door slammed. John exhaled a short sigh of relief that it hadn’t been the front door.

“What the fuck?” Freddie snapped, whipping around to face Brian who shrunk back as Freddie stalked up to him, shoving an accusatory finger into his chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I— I didn’t. I don’t know what just happened,” Brian said, looking utterly lost. “I was just mad about the jacket and—”

This did not appease the outrage that had Freddie bristling in front of him looking not entirely unlike a chihuahua gearing up to fight a great dane.

“God, you’re still going on about the jacket?” Freddie said, prodding at Brian’s chest with his finger again. “No one cares about your sodding jacket, Brian. _You_ don’t care about the jacket. There’s no way all of this,” he swept an arm to encase the room which now stood in disarray. “Is because of a fucking jacket.”

“It _was_ ,” Brian insisted, his voice rough. He cleared his throat, repeated: “It was. It is.”

Freddie stepped back, shaking his head resignedly. John shifted in his seat, and the crisp packet stuck under his thigh he’d now long since forgotten about let out a too loud rustle in the heavy silence of the room. He winced as Brian looked back at him, the surprise on his face indicating that he had, as planned, forgotten he was there after all.

“John,” Brian said, desperation high and reedy in his tone as he blinked just a bit too quickly against the wetness that had his eyes shining. “John, you heard. It was, it was just about the jacket right?”

“Uh,” John said, uncomfortable. Yes, it had been about the jacket. But no, there was no way in hell it had just been about the jacket.

“Don’t worry, Deaky,” Freddie said, shooting him a quick smile that disappeared as his eyes turned back to Brian. Freddie rubbed a tired hand over his eyes, before shooting Brian a sickly sweet smile as he ducked his head and toed at the carpet: “I’m going to go fix what you broke. Do try not to be an utter cunt to anyone else while I’m gone, won’t you, darling?” With that parting shot he strode out of the room.

Brian ran at hand through his curls, “Shit.”

John uncurled from the seat slowly, setting his textbook open on the arm of the chair as he stood, wincing as his legs protested at moving after spending so long locked in the same position, “You alright?”

“I’m a dickhead,” Brian said, huffing out something almost like a laugh as he tugged at his hair with his gaze distractedly aimed toward the hallway.

Well, thought John.

“Yeah,” he agreed, shrugging when Brian flicked a glance his way. “You alright, though?”

Brian nodded, hesitated, then shook his head.

John waited.

“Why’d I do that?” Brian said at length, his shoulders slumping as he let his hand finally fall from his hair. John was more than a little relieved. Although he certainly had a lot of hair, he was fairly sure his bad habit of tugging at it when he was stressed or upset was going to end up with Brian developing a bald patch by the time he was in his thirties and — given Roger’s habit of playing with the hair of anyone who made the mistake of sitting close to him for any length of time, and the particular fondness for Brian’s that manifested most obviously in the ever expanding selection of curly hair products that appeared in their shared bathroom which Brian swore he wasn’t buying — would almost certainly result in a tantrum of epic proportions from Roger.

That this potential eventuality was years off did not mean that John spent any less time nervously contemplating the fall out. Somewhere in the last few months the idea that he was still going to be involved with these guys years in the future had somehow just become a given.

“Why do I _always_ do that?” Brian continued his voice thick as he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. His shoulders shook, just barely perceptible under Roger’s jumper which was stretched tight yet a perfect fit in all the ways that mattered, and his breath shuddered. “Fuck.”

“Hey,” John said soothingly, taking a couple of steps and clasping a hand on Brian’s wrist to tug his hands from his face. “Hey, it’s alright.”

The barrier of his hands taken away from him, Brian ducked his gaze to the floor instead steadfastly ignoring John’s attempts to make eye contact. John sighed.

“Right, come on then,” he said, releasing Brian’s wrist in favour of grabbing his hand instead. “Let’s get to bed, we can all have a chat about it in the morning after we’ve had some sleep. I’m guessing I’m kipping in Freddie’s bed if you don’t mind?” He pulled Brian out of the living room with him, remembering to flick off the light as he went. Their electricity bill was most likely already going to be more than they could afford, a by product of Freddie’s thermostat tinkering whenever Brian happened to leave the flat during the entirety of December — he did, at least, slip a couple of extra notes into the household expenditure jar; the problem was that Freddie had no real conception of money outside of whether or not he had enough of it to buy a new pair of boots, so the extra fifteen quid most likely wasn’t quite going to cut it — and John could practically see already the way Freddie would pounce on a light left on all night to explain away the discrepancy. As if Brian couldn’t tell when he entered the flat after a day at university or work that the temperature was a good ten degrees hotter than he’d left it at.

In Brian and Freddie’s room, Brian sank down onto his bed silently as John shoved what seemed to be half of Freddie’s wardrobe from his bed for the night. There had been a small dent in the middle of the clothing pile which suggested Freddie had merely curled up on top of it rather than put it all away when he’d gone to bed earlier. He most likely wouldn’t be too happy to find it all on the floor in the morning, being generally insistent that even the cheapest piece of tat was worth a fortune, but John wasn’t about to spend the night with the heel of a platform boot digging into his ribs for no good reason.

At least, he thought as he got himself settled under the covers, he was already wearing suitable pyjama-like clothes. Brian was at home, so the thermostat was sat solidly around about the Arctic Circle — if he’d have gotten properly dressed this morning he’d have had to have chosen between the discomfort of sleeping in jeans or frostbite from risking just his boxers.

Brian remained sat on the edge of his bed, staring despondently at his hands.

“Brian,” John said softly. A hitch in his breath was the only indication Brian gave that he heard him. “Get into bed, Brian. We’ll sort it out in the morning.”

Brian nodded, clambering into bed — no regard given to the trousers or shoes he was wearing. He curled up immediately under the covers, hair tufting up and spilling over the pillows. John reached over, the light switch just within reach from Freddie’s bed, and plunged the room into darkness.

Laying there awake, he wasn’t sure what was worse: the tears that weren’t quite muffled followed closely by too-loud breaths that echoed with the weight that came from trying to keep them even; or the low humming that came reverberating shakily through the shared wall stood behind his head.

 

* * *

 

The morning found John sat at the kitchen table with his textbook and a cup of Brian’s special tea blend in front of him. Somewhere around 3am the sympathy he’d had for Brian had evaporated, the result of his inability to sleep as Brian tossed and turned muttering to himself in between bouts of tears. Lack of sleep had slowly eroded at his goodwill towards the whole sorry situation.

The fact that the tears from across the room had eventually stopped, but that the soft singing had continued until he’d wrested himself from Freddie’s bed and stomped into the kitchen to drink tea and study, though the lack of sleep was making the latter difficult, only compounded his less than stellar sympathetic stance towards his roommate for the night.

Brian stumbled into the kitchen next, his hair a frizzed up mess.

John raised an eyebrow at him which Brian waved off, scrubbing a hand against a section which had become matted close to the scalp during the night: “I know. I forgot to put it up last night, I’ll have to wash it.”

He continued over to the kettle, pausing for a brief moment upon seeing his tin of tea open on the benchtop. It wasn’t Freddie’s miniature stolen stash, but the full container that Brian had taken to hiding in increasingly obscure spots around the flat.

“How?” he began, looking between the tea and John before shaking his head and setting the kettle off. “Nevermind.”

As sleep had washed over him, so apparently had the calm that had been so glaringly absent the night before.

John focused on his textbook again.

Brian sat across from him, blowing on his tea to cool it. John picked up a pencil from the table and underlined a sentence — it reminded him of something sitting right at the edge of his mind and on the tip of his tongue, something that he could only assume was important. He’d come back to it later, after some sleep.

They sat. Brian attempted to start a conversation a few times, proof that he at least was well and truly back to normal, and John rebuffed him each time with the flick of a page.

By the time John had drained his tea Brian had drawn out his phone. Eventually Brian stood to make another cup of tea, and John shoved his mug across the table to be refilled as well.

He took a sip of his new cup, wrinkling his nose as he tasted their usual blend. Brian, sipping his own mug, had a small smirk lurking around the corners of his mouth — cheeky, playful, and downright infuriating.

“Really?” John said flatly, clunking the mug down heavily.

Brian’s smirk faltered and he pushed his own mug over towards him. John took it, ignoring the glance Brian shot at the mug filled with their usual blend that also sat in front of him. If he wanted to be funny he didn’t deserve tea, even if he’d made it.

A creak, and footsteps.

Freddie materialised in the kitchen doorway, one of John’s t-shirts hanging low around his neck and his eyes rimmed red; the thin skin under his eyes bruised with exhaustion.

“Well, good morning, my lovelies!” Freddie exclaimed, his greeting a little bit manic around the edges as moved over to the table, plucking the spare mug of tea from in front of John and then moving smoothly around Brian to sit up on the counter. “Did we sleep well?”

“Oh, wonderfully,” John muttered, mostly to himself.

Brian shifted in his seat awkwardly in lieu of answering.

Freddie drank his tea quietly, eyes darting between the two of them.

“Roger told me his side of the story,” Freddie said at length, setting the mug down next to himself when it became clear that Brian wasn't about to speak first. “Or at least,” he added, head tilted as he considered. “What he thought were the important parts of it. But for the life of me I can’t figure out what the fuck started it.”

Brian set his phone on the table, fidgeting.

“He borrowed my jacke—”

“ _I_ ,” Freddie interrupted with a frown, kicking his bare feet against the cupboard door for emphasis. “Have had a very fucking long night, Brian. And I love you, I do, but if you insist on telling me all of this was about a bloody _jacket_ again I’m afraid I shall have to garrote you and feed your corpse to the cat.”

Brian grimaced, digging his fingernails into the grooves of the tabletop.

Silence dragged.

“ _Brian_ ,” Freddie snapped, fingers tapping an impatient beat against the benchtop.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Brian groaned, rubbing at the back of his neck with agitation. “It started because he borrowed my jacket!”

John rolled his eyes, marking another sentence.

“Lord above give me deliverance from fucking imbeciles,” Freddie muttered.

“It did!” Brian exclaimed, sinking his head into his hands and looking a mix between embarrassed and ashamed. “It really did.”

Freddie left out a frustrated noise, a high pitched whine of a thing that had Cleo, who had come padding into the kitchen not long after Freddie, skittering right back out of the room as if someone had set her tail alight. He banged his foot against the cupboard door again.

“I was pissed off about the jacket,” Brian said, mumbling into his hands. “Because I found it back in my room and it smelled like smoke; it smelled like _Roger_ and, I don’t know. The smoke wasn’t too bad, I guess?”

John paused his reading, closing his eyes as he tried desperately to keep from straight up laughing in Brian’s face. Who did he think he was kidding? _It smelled like Roger_? Jesus Christ.

“So I put it on and then I noticed there was lipstick on the collar and I just got so angry,” Brian peeked up out of his hands at John, who kept his head resolutely down. “And he wasn’t _home,_  Fred. And he didn’t get home for days so it just… grew. It just fucking festered until he walked through the door, with a fucking hic— until he walked through the door.”

“Well perhaps,” John said disinterestedly, turning a page of his textbook. “If you stopped punishing Roger for your inability to nut the fuck up and tell him how you feel, this might not be a problem.”

Silence blanketed the kitchen anew and John glanced up. Brian looked vaguely outraged, his mouth opening and closing slightly as he attempted to come up with a suitable rebuttal. Freddie, on the other hand, had utter delight splashed across his features as he stared across at him in open awe from where he was sat on the counter.

“Holy _shit_ , Deaky,” Freddie breathed, an incredulous smile curling at the corners of his lips and brightening the wan plans of his face.

“Just a suggestion,” John shrugged, taking a sip of tea.

“That’s not,” Brian spluttered, eyes wide and just a little frightened. “That’s _not_ what last night was about, John.”

John rolled his eyes again, throwing himself back in his chair. The pretence of detached studying now abandoned, “Brian, you called him a whore because he got lipstick on your jacket and came home with a hickey.

There was a clatter as Freddie dropped his mug onto the counter: “What?”

“I didn’t,” Brian started, wincing at the dry look John gave him before changing tack. “I mean, I did. But I didn’t _mean_ to.”

“Do you often accidentally call people whores or is Roger just special?” John asked mildly, taking a sip of his tea.

“Wait, wait, wait,” said Freddie hurriedly, leaning over to whack Brian on the shoulder as he opened his mouth to retort. “I didn’t know about this, what the fuck?”

Brian twisted around to face him, “Roger didn’t tell you?”

“He had other concerns,” Freddie said dismissively, waving a hand absently.

“Like what?” asked John, suddenly suspicious that there had been an undercurrent to the night before that he had somehow missed. With Freddie and Roger he always felt as if he were attempting to piece together a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing, like if he could find just one more corner piece, maybe it would all fall into place; but then he would find a corner piece, with fingers trailing down long healed grooves that stood unfairly faint on the skin of the life they had tried to take, and it would be for a completely different puzzle entirely.

Freddie shot him a scrutinising glance from under his lashes for a long moment before turning his attention fully onto Brian once more, “Did no one ever tell you not to call the men you want to bed whores unless they ask for it?” He shook his head: “Just what are they teaching you in that university, darling? Clearly nothing worth knowing.”

“Clearly,” muttered Brian, turning back around to drop his head into his hands once more. “I’m a twat.”

“Oh,” said Freddie, prodding lightly at his under eye skin as he peered into his reflection on the kettle. “We already knew that, don’t worry.”

Brian groaned lowly, one hand now massaging his temple as he stared down at the table despondently: “He’s just never home, y’know? And I missed him and then that turned into me being angry at him because I missed him; I know things are all fucked up right now and I don’t know how to help! So, I was frustrated because I want to help—”

“Was what happened last night supposed to help, then?” John mumbled, ignoring the small glare Brian shot at him. Freddie smothered a smirk, but winked at him nonetheless.

“And it just turned into a big mess. You know us, Fred,” Brian said, desperation lining his eyes as he sat up once more and fell back against his chair to let his head loll over the back in Freddie’s direction. “We just feed off of each other when we get like that, saying all kinds of things we don’t actually mean.”

“I know,” said Freddie, glancing at John as if to reassure him of the fact also. “Last night was just… a little worse than usual is all, sweetheart.”

Confusion overtook Brian’s expression and he scrunched up his face as he watched Freddie’s figure upside down, “We’ve had worse than that.”

Freddie’s mouth opened before he appeared to think better of whatever he had been about to say and shrugged. He hummed noncommittally as he picked at his cuticles, bangs falling into his eyes as he avoided their questioning gazes. John squinted at him as silence fell uncomfortably over the kitchen once more.

Less than two minutes of silence passed before Brian began fidgeting, reaching out for his phone only to put it down again. Freddie had returned to critically inspecting his appearance in the kettle, tutting over the sorry state of his eyes. John merely sat, watching Brian’s awkward squirming coolly.

Another two minutes and Brian gave up, “I’ve gotta jump in the shower. I’ve got work this afternoon.”

“Okay, darling,” replied Freddie, waving him off absently. His attention was still fixed on his reflection like a budgie, and Brian loping out of the room barely merited a look in his direction.

John tugged his textbook a little closer with the intentions of returning to his, admittedly not particularly productive, study. The pipes clanged as Brian started up the shower in the bathroom and John jumped as Freddie leapt down from the counter with a bang to settle in Brian’s abandoned chair with a sigh.

Really, John thought, they were lucky they’d relocated the hedgehog to a large pen set-up on the balcony given the number of conversations and meetings that occurred in the kitchen.

Looking at the downset turn of his lips and the deep purple of his under eyes, John felt compelled to ask: “Are you okay?”

“Hmm?” hummed Freddie tiredly. “Oh, I’m fine, darling.”

“You sure?” John said, closing his textbook. “I heard you all night. Did you get any sleep?”

Freddie laughed softly, his fingers tracing the same grooves in the tabletop that Brian had earlier in the morning. “No,” he said, and John wanted to ask if that was an answer to both questions but Freddie continued. “I’ll head back to Roger in a bit, I just wanted to catch Brian before he ran out.”

“Oh?” said John.

“I’m quite used to this song and dance by now,” Freddie said, gesturing to the living room seemingly determined to deflect from any enquiries into his own wellbeing. “Brian will make himself scarce for the next few days with an array of excuses, none of which will be particularly convincing, and then by the end of the week they’ll be back to normal.”

John considered this, rolling the thought around as he would a difficult equation.

“You said this one was worse than usual, though,” he said, cocking his head as he watched Freddie nod reluctantly.

“Unintentionally worse,” Freddie agreed with a small grimace. “Brian has the unfortunate and uncanny ability to push all of Roger’s buttons, even the ones he doesn’t know exist. They’ll be okay.”

Thinking back to the way Roger had shaken apart at the seams in reaction to Brian’s words the night before, John couldn’t help the doubtful expression that crossed his face.

“They’re just like this sometimes,” Freddie said, reaching out to lay a comforting hand upon his arm which lay on the table. “They bring out the best and worst of each other. A little like, oh. I don’t know…” he trailed off thoughtfully, his eyes tracking a distant path. “An elastic band!” he snapped his fingers quickly, before allowing his hand to fall back upon John’s arm. “They have these blips of stretching apart and then all of a sudden they’re straight back to how they were before, cuddling all over the place and making you positively sick for all the pining going on.

Anyway,” he gave John’s arm a quick pat before standing, stretching languorously and letting out a low moan as his back cracked. “I should head back to bed if I have any hope of being useful later today. You’re quite welcome to your own bed should you have need of it, I highly doubt Roger and I will be awake any time before mid-afternoon at best.”

Not waiting for a reply he skirted deftly around the table, smoothing a hand over John’s hair as he went, and headed out of the door.

(John rolled over, disorientated as he blinked into the darkness of the room. A few seconds passed as he gained his bearings before he remembered: fight, Brian and Freddie’s room, no sleep, nap.

The nap part explained why he was waking up to pitch black. Or no, not quite. He’d settled down for a quick hour or two around 3ish, and he’d clearly overshot by quite a bit. Over on the other side of the room sat Roger, Freddie curled up on his lap, dimly illuminated by the screen of his phone.

“Hey,” said John, his voice catching on the unexpected dryness of his throat. He swallowed and tried again: “Hey.”

“Hey,” whispered Roger, the hand not holding his phone carding through Freddie’s hair tenderly. “You okay?”

John squinted across at him, brow furrowing with confusion as he said, “Yeah, of course.”

“Okay,” said Roger, setting his phone down on his mattress and plunging the room into even further darkness. Faint light, barely noticeable, streamed in through a crack in their curtains — the result of an inconveniently positioned street lamp. “I’m sorry,” Roger continued after a brief pause, the words coming slowly as if he were thinking very hard about each one before he spoke them aloud. “For throwing things last night. I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry if it scared you.”

“I— Thank you?” John replied, still confused. “You didn’t scare me, I know you wouldn’t ever hurt any of us intentionally. But... thank you anyway.”

“Oh,” said Roger, his voice coloured with the small smile that John could just about make out from across the room. “Thanks.”

John felt as if they were having two wildly different conversations.

“You’re welcome?”

“Boys,” came Freddie’s voice, uncharacteristically rough with sleep still clinging tight onto each syllable. “This is all very cute, but I _will_ murder you if you don’t shut up and let me sleep,” this was followed by a high pitched yelp from Roger. “And if you don’t get right back down here and cuddle me, damn it.”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [dumps a 6.5k chapter and runs off] as always unbeta'd and written drunk/sleep deprived any massive errors let me know
> 
> comments make me live to see another day! come say hi on tumblr @[candidroger](https://candidroger.tumblr.com/)


	10. Chapter 10

Brian wasn’t 100% sure when Roger and Tim had started fucking, though he had his guesses. Conjectures largely based on when Tim had started actually listening to Roger’s suggestions as they rehearsed rather than ignoring him out of hand with a dismissive tilt to his head; how keyed up Roger usually got after performances, energy bursting out of him as his eyes roamed whatever piece of shit pub they were in for a fight or a fuck; and, of course, when Roger had stopped taking offence at Tim’s straight up arseholery.

All he _knew_ at the time was this: Roger and Tim had started fucking, the band began gaining some real traction in the local pub scene, and then Tim left.

He’d picked things up, of course, over the past two years. He’d learned now, courtesy of Freddie, that before Tim Roger had never actually had anything resembling a relationship before. That what he had assumed was just fooling around after shows and the such was actually something a bit more, that in the six months or so that everything was happening promises had been made, feelings begun.

All he knew at the time was this: Tim was an arsehole.

He'd know that when he had started the band with him, known it like he knew the stars in the sky — but he hadn’t cared because he had just wanted to play and he didn’t give a damn who it was with. He could bite his tongue, keep his head down, and play the fucking godawful shite Tim insisted was the next coming of the Stones if it meant that he also got to shove in a guitar solo here and there and listen to his lady _sing_.

But, yeah, he knew Tim was an arsehole, he’d known that Roger was young, and he hadn’t said anything because it wasn’t his place. If Roger wanted to fuck around with Tim, why shouldn’t he? Yeah, he was young, but he was also the same guy Brian had seen take two different people into the loo’s after their first gig. Brian had figured he knew what he was doing well enough.

Which was something he supposed he’d never stop feeling guilty about. Immediately after the whole thing had gone tits up, when he’d had to deliver a truly and thoroughly demolished Roger to his front door and meet the accusing eyes of Freddie, he’d wondered why he hadn’t said anything. Just a warning about the kind of guy Tim was, truly was. Why he hadn’t pulled Roger aside when he’d first noticed the dynamics had changed and just asked if there was anything going on that perhaps, as a member of the band, he should know about.

Of course, he knew why even if he hadn't wanted to admit to it at the time.

He hadn’t asked because he hadn’t wanted to know, not really. He hadn’t wanted to know if Roger had a thing going on with anyone that wasn’t him, not at that point. God, at any point. It had been selfish of him to bury his head in the sand, but at the time he’d honestly thought it best to just ignore his stupid crush and, by extension, the thing going on between Roger and Tim. If Roger wanted to fuck around with Tim, more bully for him. Brian had sulked around in the background and not said or done anything because he was so caught up in his own goddamn pity parade that listening to the bitter voice in his head whispering ‘ _if you can’t be with him, you may as well let him learn from his own mistakes_ ’ seemed like a good idea.

How could he say he loved someone and watch them destroy themselves, saying nothing?

But then, how could he not?

 

* * *

 

Brian found himself inching the thermostat up a couple of notches, one ear planted against Roger’s bedroom door and a smile curling on his lips as the soft noise of Roger’s sleepy mumblings echoed out softly in the dusk-tinged hallway.

He’d been doing this for about a week now. Upping the thermostat; leaving Roger’s favourite snacks on his shelf in the cupboard; stupid little gestures imbued with all of the apologies he was too cowardly to say in person as he ducked in and out of the flat like a thief in the night.

He didn’t think he’d make all that good of a thief. He was too tall, his hair was rather distinctive, and sometimes he still felt guilty when he thought about the one time he’d accidentally forgotten to tag on to the bus with his Oyster card.

The door, which he was pressed up against, suddenly opened without warning. He stumbled forward, throwing up his arms to catch himself on the floor only to be caught by John who righted him silently, his shocked expression quickly smoothing itself out with a quirk of his eyebrow. Behind him, curled away from them towards the window and John’s own bed, was Roger. Or, at least, a lump that was, if the tufts of hair sticking out the end were anything to go off of, most likely Roger.

He had to admit though, it wouldn't be the first time he'd been fooled. One time he'd been convinced Roger was curled up under the dining table, only for closer inspection to reveal a particularly ugly coat that Freddie and Roger had then gone on to sell for over a hundred quid.

John gestured for him to speak.

Brian was beginning to think he had been more than a bit arrogant in his assumption that John was going to remain a somewhat outsider within their group — back when any time they’d been stuck in a room together the air had permeated with awkward silences, Brian stuttering out questions that almost always got answered with one word replies and John shrinking into himself as if he were in danger of being hit — given how well he had slotted in as if he had always been there. Where he’d initially been off put by John’s preternaturally blank expression, he now almost wished he could return to not understanding exactly what John _wasn’t_ saying when he looked at him with it.

John could simply look at you and convey an entire breadth of disappointment.

Brian opened his mouth, though to say what he wasn’t sure, and it was almost a relief when John cut him off with: “Roger, Brian’s home.”

Almost. It was almost a relief.

“Bri?” came Roger’s voice and behind John the lump that denoted Roger’s presence under his covers — not a hideously over priced rag — rustled. Brian had a moment of intense, blind panic before he found his arms instinctively closing in on Roger who had barrelled into him, not even taking the time to discard his duvet which hung about his shoulders like an ill-fitting cape.

“Where have you been?” Roger mumbled into his shoulder as John subtly nudged the two of them fully out into the hallway, closing the door and leaving them stood entwined together in relative privacy. Brian buried his nose in Roger's hair and breathed in deeply. Instead of the usually ever present smell of Freddie’s expensive shampoo, poached shamelessly and without remorse, Roger’s scent was tinged with the slightly sour notes of the unwashed. It was still _Roger_ , and he could feel himself relaxing by degrees as he breathed him in, but it was a little disconcerting given Roger’s awful penchant for ridiculously long showers which had been known to occur multiple times a day. “I was worried.”

(“Rog,” Brian said exasperatedly, leaning against the wall outside the bathroom as Roger emerged. Steam curled out of the bathroom after him; he'd had more than one screaming match with him in the past about Roger’s refusal to use the exhaust fan or open a window as he showered. Brian was just waiting for the day he found a patch of mould in there — nothing won an argument like black mould. “You had a shower four hours ago. You’ve been sat on the sofa playing Mario Kart all day, why the fuck did you need _another_ hour long shower?”

The shower had, admittedly, not been anywhere near an hour long. Sometimes Brian over exaggerated, sue him.

Roger rolled his eyes, towel slung indecently low on his hips. It was unfair, really. Brian had seen Roger completely starkers on a much too regular basis; just the other day having walked in on he and Freddie playing Strip Twister for no other reason than that they’d had a free hour to spare, and yet. Yet here he was, stood in front of him and desperately trying not to watch a droplet of water as it made its way down his chest and settled in his belly button, leaving Brian a confusing combination of turned on and unbearably soft.

“I was all…. Sticky,” Roger said with a pout, which helped Brian’s situation not at all.

Determinedly he clawed for the remaining strands of annoyance which had led him to lay in wait outside of the bathroom, clearing his throat before saying: “You’ve been sat on the sofa all day. You were not sticky.”

“I was!” Roger insisted, nose crinkling as he pulled wet strands of hair from his face with a grimace. “You know when you have a lazy day and it settles over your skin and you feel all gross?”

“No,” said Brian.)

“You could have messaged,” Brian replied, rubbing an absent hand down Roger’s back as his duvet finally gave up its fight against gravity and slid to the floor. He winced as the connotations of his words ran through his mind: Roger should have messaged; Brian thought he was in the right. Roger stiffened in his arms, pulling back, and Brian tried to prepare himself for this to go fully tits up. Historically speaking, his attempts to kiss and make up after one of their tiffs didn't go over all that well if they began with him placing the impetus of said apology on Roger who was a stubborn motherfucker at the best of times, let alone when he was hurting.

“Right,” said Roger, picking absently at a piece of tape which had begun to lift off his knuckle. Brian couldn’t begin to guess what good the tape was doing, the skin surrounding it a horrible red raw colour that suggested nothing good for the state of his hands under the wrappings. “I,” he had his brow furrowed, as if he were thinking very hard about everything about to come out of his mouth. “I’m sorry, are you alright?”

“Yes?” replied Brian, confused. “I’m fine?”

“I shouldn’t have just come at you like that,” Roger said, darting up to meet his eyes quickly while shrinking all the more into himself as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible. It was disconcerting given how often Brian managed to forget that Roger was shorter than him; most of the time Brian thought Roger had found a way to bend the laws of physics with how often he could swear he found himself looking up at him.

“What?” said Brian, even more confused and feeling ever more like a fucking moron. The problem, really, with keeping your head in the sand was that you still had to go about day by day in a minefield, insisting that you knew what you were doing while losing limbs left, right, and centre. “You hugged me, Rog. It’s not like you’ve just come at me with a bladed weapon.”

Roger worried at his lip with his teeth, and Brian couldn’t help but admit to himself that he looked bloody awful. He was bundled up in sweatpants and a jumper, though by the shapelessness they afforded him it seemed as if (despite Brian’s surreptitious thermostat tampering) he was wearing multiple layers; his hair, which he admittedly was generally a bit lax about styling unless headed out for the night, was stringy where it framed his face, strands clinging together where they were stuck to his forehead; and his lips were bitten bloody, like he’d been worrying at them for days on end.

“Hey,” Brian said softly, reaching out hesitantly. When Roger didn’t move to shrink back, didn’t react with anything like the panic he’d shown as being touched the other night, he tapped his thumb against his bottom lip: “You know I’d never turn down a cuddle.”

“Not before,” Roger replied, sighing as he ran an anxious hand through his hair. Brian shuddered just slightly as he withdrew his thumb from his lips; he could have sworn for a moment that Roger’s lips had lingered in an approximation of a kiss. Roger closed his eyes for a long moment before looking up and meeting Brian’s gaze squarely, “I’m sorry for getting aggressive the other night. I just… I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry, and I understand why you’re upset with me. There’s no excuse.”

A beat of silence, fragile like first frost grew between them.

“I,” began Brian, taken aback. “It’s fine?”

“It’s not _fine_ ,” Roger spat, vehemence pulling his body taut like a string on his Old Lady about to snap, as he backed himself against the bedroom door with his arms pulled so tight around himself that Brian could make out his knuckles whitening against the soft grey of his jumper. “It’s not okay to be violent with the people you love. Not ever.”

“You weren’t,” Brian said insistently. He lowered his voice as the realisation sparked that John was almost certainly listening in, and he’d lop off his left bollock if Freddie wasn’t stood one door down with his ear pressed up against the wall; open their bedroom door and he’d probably be there with a bloody glass turned up against his ear. “Roger, I pushed you—”

Roger laughed, a hysterical hiccup of a thing that sounded much too close to a sob for Brian’s liking. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d do if Roger started crying; he’d never seen Roger cry before. He knew he _did_ , had seen the aftermath spelled out plainly in red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. But for all that Brian was one of the least tactile of his friends, the comfort he know how to dole out was of the physical kind; loved ones pulled onto his lap for a quick cuddle, a soft palm on a shoulder, or fingers tangled together for long moments of quiet togetherness that could make you more than an individual for a time. It was a language that he and Roger had always had in common, to a point. Where Brian found himself seeking out people during his most vulnerable period, seeking the assurance that there was someone else there to bolster him when he felt as if he couldn’t stand by himself, Roger was the opposite. In all honesty, it was why these… blips, these weeks where Roger turned into the most raw version of himself — his edges turning jagged, biting into both himself and everyone around him as if he were in shark infested waters and all he wanted was to be eaten alive — they had been something he’d been able to turn a blind eye to. At his most vulnerable Roger turned into himself taking only Freddie with him, who was so much a part of Roger at times it seemed as if they couldn’t ever be parted, and when he returned again Brian could act as if nothing had happened: hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.

And after last week, despite Roger accepting his touch just moments before, Brian just wasn’t sure if his comfort would be welcome. Not while Roger shook against his bedroom door, looking much too scared of something Brian couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Him; himself; both or neither?

“You didn’t push me, you didn’t _make_ me. I did that, that was all me,” Roger said, eyes still firmly on Brian as if willing him to understand. And Brian didn’t, not at all. “I could have hurt you, and that’s on me.”

“Roger, you didn’t hurt me,” Brian said slowly, fingers itching where he determinedly kept them at his side. “You didn’t even come close. You threw a lamp at a wall, that’s all.”

Roger just stared at him, eyes wide under his limp fringe: “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Brian repeated.

“That’s all,” Roger whispered to himself, ducking his head briefly to look at the floor. He scuffed a sock-clad toe against his duvet before looking up again, now looking inexplicably angry, “That’s not… Brian, that’s not okay. You understand that, right? That that wasn’t okay?”

“It’s not ideal—” Brian began, inclining his head in acknowledgement.

“No,” interrupted Roger, shaking his head and holding up a hand to stop him. “It’s _not_ ideal because it’s not okay. I shouldn’t have done it, no one should ever do that. I—” he flinched back again, his head hitting the door with a low _thunk_ that had Brian reaching out for all of a second before he caught himself, jerkily retracting his hand back to his side under Roger's watery gaze. “ _God_ , Bri. That behaviour isn’t ever okay, alright?”

Brian nodded, hesitantly. He didn’t want to disagree: violence wasn’t okay. But he also didn’t want Roger thinking that his outburst — which, really, he didn’t understand why this was such a big deal given that they’d both argued before, much worse than this. Hell, both of them had been known to throw things in the heat of the moment. Never at each other, no, but nonetheless — equated to, what?

Roger continued to watch him, teeth returning to abuse his lower lip again as his brow furrowed, “You just… you didn’t push me to it. You don’t. No one pushes anyone to that, it’s— it wasn’t your _fault_.”

“Okay,” Brian said, soothingly. “Okay, I understand.”

He didn't understand, not at all.

Roger shivered, arms still holding onto himself in a sad approximation of an embrace. Which, no — “Come here,” Brian said, opening his arms and beckoning him in. Roger hesitated, just briefly, eyes darting over Brian’s face as he searched for something that he evidently found as his body sagged and he launched himself back into Brian’s arms again.

“I’m sorry,” Roger whispered into his neck, lips moving drily against the soft skin under his ear. “I’m so sorry. I won’t ever do it again, I promise. I won’t.”

“I know,” Brian replied, pushing a hand under the three layers Roger was wearing on his torso to lay his palm at the base of his spine. The remaining tension melted out of Roger at the contact, and he began twirling the curls at the nape of his neck even as he continued mumbling apologies as if he were trying to make his words take root and flower into something tangible between the two of them under Brian’s skin. “It’s okay,” he continued, smoothing his thumb across the small of Roger’s back as his breath hitched. “It won’t happen again, we’ll do better.”

Roger nodded against his neck, burrowing in impossibly further momentarily before drawing back suddenly.

“Shit,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the bedroom door. “Deaky’s got a date.”

Brian blinked at the sudden change of topic, “O—kay?”

“He was meant to leave ages ago,” Roger said, eyes wide as he ducked down hurriedly to pick up his duvet. He shoved open the bedroom door and, balancing on his tiptoes, peered around: “You can come out now.”

Roger let the door fall completely open and over his shoulder Brian could see John, the picture of polite consideration, sitting on the corner of Roger’s bed. Impeccably dressed with his legs crossed demurely there wasn’t a single thing that gave him away as anything other than utterly patient. Nonetheless, Brian was overcome with the knowledge that somehow, sometime he would have his comeuppance for choosing to have this conversation with Roger outside their bedroom with John trapped inside.

“I’m so sorry, Deaky,” Roger said earnestly, looking more than a little comical with the duvet bundled up in his arms. “I completely forgot. Tell Veronica it was all my fault, yeah? I'll make it up to you both.”

John smiled at him and stood, grabbing his jacket from next to him as he walked over to them, “It’s alright.” He gave Roger a quick peck on the cheek that had Brian blinking at the two of them owlishly, but which Roger greeted with a bright grin. “I’ll tell her what happened.” With that he met Brian’s gaze, expression wholly unimpressed.

Brian wasn’t sure John had been impressed with him once since meeting him.

John brushed past him, swinging his jacket over his shoulders as he went, pausing briefly to clap a hand on his shoulder and casually remark: “If you’re going to keep turning the thermostat up, could you throw a couple of quid in the jar? Bill’s looking to be a bit high.” With that said John sauntered out the flat, leaving Brian to deal with the aftermath of his oh-so-casual comment.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment in the futile hope that he could escape Roger’s questioning gaze by simply refusing to meet it. Reluctantly, however, he opened them again and sent Roger a sheepish smile, shrugging his shoulders bashfully.

“Bri?” said Roger, confusion colouring his voice. “Why would you…” he trailed off, brow furrowed and he fidgeted with the hem of his jumper. “You haven’t even been here!”

“I have,” Brian replied awkwardly, running an embarrassed hand through his hair. “I’ve just been sleeping on the sofa and, uh. Leaving really early?”

“Fuck,” muttered Roger, tensing again as he rubbed absently at the tape on his left hand, and ducked his head. Stringy strands of hair blocked his face from view momentarily, and Brian was overcome with how fucking sick he was getting of looking at him and seeing him make himself smaller: “I’m sorry. I should have messaged, that— this is your home, Bri. You shouldn’t feel unsafe here, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“That’s not?” Brian said, tugging at his hair with frustration. “I’m not _frightened_ of you, Roger. I don’t feel unsafe here?” The idea was ludicrous. “I said a whole bunch of shit that hurt you and I wanted to apologise. I was worried you’d tell me to fuck off.” Roger opened his mouth to reply, but Brian continued: “And rightly so.”

“You didn’t say anything I haven’t heard before, Bri,” Roger said, with a slight roll of his shoulders. Brian imagined he could see the things he’d said streaming off his back, forgiven and forgotten. Maybe that was how Roger saw it, but not him. Roger was historically extraordinarily bad at holding grudges: quick to temper, quick to forget. Once he had decided to set something aside, it wouldn't be mentioned again. Brian, on the other hand, hadn’t spoken to his parents next door neighbour on the right hand side since he was sixteen after an altercation concerning a garden gnome.

“Roger,” he said, stepping forward and tentatively placing his hands on his shoulders. When Roger didn’t appear to panic at the contact, he strengthened his grip. “I said a load of shit that I didn’t fucking mean because,” he paused. What could he say? Because I’m in love with you and it makes me a jealous twit? Because I can’t stand to look at the marks on your skin, knowing I wasn’t the one to put them there? Because I’m worried out of my fucking mind about you, and too much of a coward to do anything about it? Because so much of my life over the past two years has been about loving you, almost all of you, that the idea of breaking that one last barrier, that one last teetering pillar holding up your pedestal scares me half to death?

“I’m a twat,” he finished lamely, letting his hands fall from Roger’s shoulders.

Roger snorted, an involuntary sound that appeared to surprise him even as a sly smile worked its way onto his face. He gave him a cheeky wink, “Well, we knew that, Bri.”

“Funnily enough,” Brian sighed playfully, simultaneously relieved at Roger’s acceptance of his pathetic excuse and disappointed as it allowed him to take the cowards route again. “That’s what Deaky and Fred said, too.”

Roger laughed, a bright sound that contrasted oddly with the pallid tone of his skin. The yawn that followed seemed more at home; wide, gaping, and leaving him sagging in on himself anew.

“God,” he said, running a ragged hand over his face. “Sorry, I’m fucking exhausted.”

“You, uh, do look a bit rough,” Brian replied, gesturing awkwardly to Roger’s odd socks. Hating himself even as he said: “Coming down with something, do you think?”

Roger looked at him for a long moment. Then, “Yeah, maybe."

“Right,” said Brian, shuffling on his feet as if his body were determined to physically manifest the conversational dance they were all too accustomed to. Take one step forward, something’s not right here; one step to the left, and offer an out; pause and bow, is he going to break the spell?; step back, a lie no one quite believes; together again, and not together at all.

Silence stretched.

“There’s an Attenborough doco on BBC2 in a few,” said Brian, cursing his inability to stay quiet for any length of time at all. Roger’s lips quirked, always amused at Brian’s need to fill up a room with chatter: “We could… we could watch, if you want? It’s been a while since we had a proper cuddle.”

He hoped he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.

“‘m gonna fall asleep on you,” Roger told him, tucking his hair behind his ear.

“You always do.”

 

* * *

 

Later, curled up on the sofa as the night settled around them, Roger sprawled on top of him and radiating heat as he smothered the lightest of snores in the crook of his neck for long hours, he could think: this would be enough.

“I love you, and I’m worried about you,” he whispered, disturbing the peace as he always did.

Later still, curled up on the sofa as the dawn broke sweet and mellow outside, Roger sprawled on top of him and shivering ever so lightly as his eyelashes fluttered against the crook of his neck for long hours, he could think: it didn’t matter if this would be enough.

“You awake?” he asked softly, and pretended not to know the answer.

 

* * *

 

Brian always felt more comfortable in the embrace of the night. There was something magical about the way the shadows stretched out ever more and made everything just that little bit less real. Liminality, which suffused the darkened hours, tinged his every breath and filled his lungs with all the things that couldn’t be said in the light of day — all those confessions and confidences that shied away from the sun flowered in the anonymity offered by the twilight.

Across the room Freddie sighed heavily as he tossed and turned. The moonlight winked at Brian as it reflected off of the many sequins which decorated the throw pillows Freddie had thrown from his bed earlier in the night. 

“Freddie?” Brian whispered into the darkness. Freddie stilled. “I’m worried about Roger.”

A beat that stretched somewhat too long sat in the air.

“Something bad happened before I met you,” Brain continued, when Freddie stayed quiet, his voice growing stronger as he went on. He’d thought breaking his long held peace would somehow be more difficult than all of the other silence’s he'd trampled over in his haste to connect with people through the years, but it wasn’t. He felt instead as if he were holding floodgates shut desperately as he thought carefully about what he wanted to say as years worth of questions and observations tried to rush out at once. He took a deep breath, tasting something almost like bravery on his tongue: “I’ve never let myself think about it; I’ve never had to. But I’m starting to think about it now, Fred. I’m starting to think about it now, and if I’m starting to think about it I’m worried—”

“Brian, don’t,” said Freddie, and Brian was taken aback to hear a tremble. Brian had thought of Freddie as many things over the years but scared had never been one of them.

He supposed, perhaps, in obsessing over the ways he himself had been hiding from everything he hadn’t thought about how Freddie may have been as well.

“I’m worried—”

“Brian. Please, don’t.”

“I’m worried it’s because it might happen again.”

The sound of Freddie drawing a ragged breath reverberated across the room, and Brian could almost imagine the shallow shadows that hung over them cringing backwards at such a jagged crack to the calm of the night. It was fitting, in a way. Brian felt as if he were finally tracing faultlines he’d always been peripherally aware of but determinedly ignorant of at the same time. All the chips and cracks in the foundations of the relationships they’d forged with one another now being laid bare under the dim illumination of the gibbous moon shining in through the window.

“Brian,” Freddie whispered miserably, and the dark silhouette of his form on the bed curled upwards. Squinting, Brian thought he could just about make him out hunched over, arms balanced on his knees and his head hung down low.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” said Brian, almost hoping that he would. Like if Freddie lied to him now they could go back to how it had been before; if Freddie lied to him now perhaps he’d wake up in the morning and could continue to pretend that everything was fine, the wool pulled back over his eyes turning the world just slightly fuzzy around the edges.

Freddie stayed silent, and the wool turned to dust.

“Fuck,” Brian exhaled. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching where he’d tied his hair up for bed. “Fuck!” he cursed louder, ripping his hand from his hair and ignoring the pain from the strands of hair he pulled loose.

“Shh!” Freddie hissed, leaning over and flicking the light on.

“No!” Brian exclaimed, breath catching painfully in his chest as the tangled ball of yarn that had been rattling around in the darker recesses of his mind for over two years now, slowly growing in size until it reached critical mass and sprouted cowbells, began to unravel.

“Brian,” Freddie said lowly. Brian thought his name had begun to sound ridiculous, the amount of times Freddie had said it. “Shut the fuck up.”

Brian stared at him, eyes wide and breathing erratic.

“If you can’t handle this,” Freddie said, gaze serious and steady. “That’s fine. But you keep your mouth shut, and you let _me_ handle it like I’ve been handling it for the last three fucking years. You keep your pretty mop of curls down, and you let me handle this.”

“You think you’re handling this?” Brian said, disbelief suffusing his entire being as the image of Roger, standing in front of him looking like one of the goddamn Lifeline public service announcements that played after triggering Eastenders episodes, flashed to the forefront of his mind on loop. “Have you _seen_ him lately, Freddie? What the fuck.”

“You,” said Freddie, jaw tight and fists clenched where they lay on top of his duvet. “Do not get to fucking judge me on how I’m handling this. How I’m handling where Roger is at right now.” Brian flinched, rocking back as he took the implied dig. He went to reply, but Freddie cut him off with a shake of his head. “No,” Freddie’s voice was tight, anger coiling deceptively under the soft tone he was keeping steady. “You have _no idea_ what the fuck goes on while you duck in and out of the flat like some kind of shite James Bond with a cheap fucking perm. Do you know what I came home to the other night, Brian?”

Brian shook his head.

“Roger, sat on the sofa. Which, fine right?” Freddie said, with a shrug and a smile that was so sickly that the inauthenticity dug into Brian’s skin like pins and needles. “He was sat on the sofa fully dressed, and fucking  _showered_. I mean, halle-fucking-lujah! I was ready to start crying I was so fucking relieved, so goddamn happy! And then I realised it was nearly six in the evening and he wasn’t meant to be home yet, he was meant to be still on his way back from class.

He hadn’t gone.” Freddie laughed, a bitter note lingering in the air: “He’d gotten up, he’d gotten showered, he’d gotten dressed; and then he sat on the sofa and he didn’t move for seven bloody hours because he couldn’t make himself leave the fucking flat.”

“Fred,” Brian said, hesitantly. “I—”

“No,” said Freddie firmly, meeting his eyes defiantly. “You don’t get to judge me. You weren’t here when I found him after he tried to fucking off himself,” he ignored Brian’s small gasp as the long disguised truth was so crudely dumped in front of him, its presentation defying Brian's oft practiced ability to skitter away from unpleasantness through determined obtuseness. “You weren’t here when I dragged him to shitty mental health assessments, and changed his dressings, fighting with doctor’s who wouldn’t refer him to a fucking therapist because he didn’t have the goddamn medical history. You were not _here_ , Brian.”

“I didn’t know,” Brian said weakly, fingers twisting uneasily in his own comforter. “I didn’t know, Freddie.”

“Oh,” said Freddie, the still soft-lilt to his voice at horrible juxtaposition to the snide shape his mouth had curled into. “I'm sorry, are we pretending that you wanted to know?”

Brian went to speak again, and Freddie cut him off.

“You didn’t want to know, Brian,” Freddie said, frustration finally eroding a terrible, sharp edge into his voice. “You didn’t want to know because it’s easier to love Roger when he’s okay. It’s easier to love Roger who’s up for a good time, and who can remember to shower every day. It’s not easy to love Roger when he’s angry, and he’s hurting, and he hasn’t gotten dressed in days. It’s not easy to love Roger when he can’t get out of bed, or hasn’t come home in three days. That’s not _easy_.”

Brian, to his horror, could feel the tears building up; the kind that started deep in the pit of your stomach and didn’t stop until you’d exhausted yourself and then had you waking in the morning unable to remember falling asleep.

“It’s not fucking easy loving Roger when he’s like this, so don’t you bloody _dare_ judge me for keeping him fucking alive and loving him every damn second of it,” Freddie hissed, every word cutting into Brian’s skin like a wound.

They stared across at one another for a long, dangerous, moment before Freddie huffed out a breath with a roll of his eyes. Propelling himself out of the bed and — as was typical of Freddie once tempers grew too hot — leaving the room, he let the door to slam shut behind him leaving Brian to sit in the too-bright room, and listen to the soft whispers coming through the wall as Freddie entered John and Roger’s room for the night.

Brian breathed, the overhead light corrupting the tenderness of the night and infecting the ball of sorrow that had sparked in the pit of his stomach with a terrible, aching _anger_ he couldn’t even begin to understand.

The kind of anger that he knew had no direction and no resolution. The unfair anger that just _was_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my godddd i have had. this chapter? was a fucking NIGHTMARE. im sorry it's so short, i really wanted to get it to 7.5k so i could hit 50k but? i barely made it to 5.5k, it's taken me nearly a goddamn month. im so so so so sorry, im a disaster. y'all deserve better. there are probably so many mistakes, any glaring obvious ones point them out i just. needed to get this up before i read it again and reminded myself how much i h a t e this chapter. apologies. come yell at me on @candidroger on tumblr.
> 
> [edited: 19/03, oh dear god im SO SORRY it really really r e a l l y needing editing y'all. fuck! whoops.]


	11. Chapter 11

Freddie took a long drag, looking out at the depressing bleakness that was the car park below him in the pre-dawn. It was disrupted, only somewhat, by the strange meshing that the building owners had installed over their balcony a year or so ago after a promising young entrepreneur several floors up — his business being in the illicit drug trade; appreciated only by the locals, perhaps, but nonetheless appreciated —had jumped. He wasn’t all that convinced that the flimsy mesh provided all that much protection, but he supposed it gave the owners all the legal protection that they required.

He hadn’t slept all that well, or really at all, tracking Roger’s breathing as his chest moved beneath his cheek. John hadn’t been all that impressed by his stumbling into their room in the wee hours of the morning, the moon still in its brightest phase up in the sky, but then John wasn’t much impressed by anything that went on in the flat nowadays. Not that Freddie could blame him. Roger had barely stirred, merely curling into him with a sigh and a barely audible grumble.

He took another drag.

(“You know, darling: smoking kills,” he said airily, watching his new friend reach for his pack of smokes again. They’d left that first bar, after bonding over their preferred chapstick flavour (cherry, of course) which had led to a vaguely exhibitionist cherry stem tying competition, and then a second, third, and fourth. Somehow, and if he were being honest he hadn’t the foggiest how, they’d found themselves sat on the curb outside their fifth venue of the night, a nightclub, at gone four in the morning.

“Really?” Roger mumbled around his cigarette as he fumbled with his lighter. “I suppose the shit you snorted earlier was holistic then?”

“Uh!” exclaimed Freddie, waving away the smoke Roger blew into his face. “That was medicinal!”

“So’s this, bitch.”)

“There room out here for another?”

Freddie sighed, and exhaled heavily.

“Don’t tell me you want a smoke,” he said, not turning around to face him. The vague presence of Brian’s hair shaded a blurry silhouette in the periphery of his vision. “I know things are bit screw-y at the moment, Brian, but if you ask me for a smoke I may just about jump myself.”

“No,” said Brian, not moving. A pause: “... Can I join you?”

“You don’t need to ask,” Freddie said, tapping the excess ash from his cigarette over the rail of the balcony. “This isn’t Nazi Germany, darling.”

Brian shuffled, “True.”

“Oh for goodness sake,” Freddie huffed, shooting him a glare over his shoulder as Brian stayed stood stock still in the doorway. “Will you get over here, you overgrown loofah.”

A surprised laugh punched out of Brian, and Freddie frowned just a little at the way it shattered the bleak stillness of the morning. As if it had been waiting for something else to break the silence, a car alarm sounded in the distance — a piercing soundtrack to accompany Brian on his two step journey to the balcony railing.

Freddie cocked his head, “Is that…”

“That’s not the van,” Brian said confidently, shaking his head. “Roger got John to change the alarm to that bird sound when he changed the horn.”

“Oh,” said Freddie, confused. “When was that?”

“Uh,” Brian hummed, thinking. “End of November? Rog dragged John out to that rave over near Hackney, remember?”

“Fuck,” swore Freddie, taking a quick last suck of his fag as he rubbed a tired hand through his hair. “Feels like that was years ago, not two months.”

Brian nodded, sucking on his bottom lip in a way that Freddie distractedly acknowledged Roger would pay good money to see. Freddie stubbed out his fag and reached over to snag the precariously balanced pack, which he’d snatched from Roger’s desk on his way out of the room, to light another. Out of habit he offered the open pack to Brian, who hesitated a moment before moving to take one.

“For fucks sake, Bri,” Freddie scowled, snatching the pack back as his brain caught up with his body’s compulsion to perform social niceties. “Don’t be fucking ridiculous. I wasn’t joking, you know. I will fucking jump, and then you’ll have to live with that on your conscience forever more.”

Brian frowned, slumping backwards against the brickwork that separated the balcony from the kitchen and crossed his arms across his chest. He always looked like a toddler on the verge of a tantrum who had, through some accident or mishap, been stretched out like taffy when he did so, though Freddie had never told him that; he knew doing so would most likely result in Brian having a small internal meltdown about whether or not anyone took his emotions seriously or some such shite. The things that seemed to keep Brian up at night were, on the whole, bloody stupid to everyone but Brian.

“I’m an adult, Freddie,” Brian grumbled, a small pout gracing his face to complete the picture of petulance that he embodied. “If I want a cigarette, I can have one.”

“I,” said Freddie, pausing to light his cigarette before pushing himself off the railing to lean into Brian’s space. He laid his hands upon his shoulders and exhaled heavily into his face. Brian spluttered, blinking rapidly as his eyes watered from the smoke. “Do not have the time nor the energy for you to have your own breakdown right now, Brian. Get your shit together. Only one band member at a time is allowed to go fucking mental, and I’m afraid Rog beat you to the punch bloody years ago. Buck the fuck up, cowboy.”

With that he pushed off of Brian again and, unsure as to how this particular conversation was going to go, moved over to the opposite wall. He took another drag as he eyed Brian warily, his posture slowly dissolving from defiant petulance to a sad sort of resignation.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did last night,” Brian said softly, head bowed and bunny rabbit slipper clad toes dragging along of the cold concrete of the balcony floor.

The sight of them was almost enough to make Freddie laugh; at both the absurdity of their presence during this clandestine pre-dawn meeting, and also at the fact that Brian was, of course, fucking _wearing_ the hideous things.

“What I said _earlier_ , I guess,” Brian continued. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean it the way it came out. Honest, Fred,” he peeked up through his fringe at Freddie for a brief moment before ducking his head back down again upon meeting his gaze. “I know I’ve no room to judge you, I know that. I’m just so angry at myself for being such a fucking coward that it twisted all the things I meant to say into something ugly, something mean. It’s easier to— to _express_ that anger at you than at myself, I guess.”

Freddie’s own anger that had been prickling under his skin ever since Brian had begun pushing at their long established boundaries in the wee hours of the morning — the burn keeping him awake as he counted Roger’s breaths against the soft skin of his neck until he’d had to retreat to the stinging cold of the balcony to drown it out — dissipated as quickly as it had built. Sorrow took its place, clagging up at the bottom of his throat and leaving his tongue heavy in his mouth as all the furious words he’d been planning to spit out at Brian over the past few hours unravelled and turned instead to an exhausted kind of desperation that was clawing its way out from his chest with such rapidity that Freddie was horrified to find himself choking back unexpected sobs.

“I’m trying,” he pushed out through the tightness of his throat, swallowing back breaths that were threatening to turn into something he couldn’t afford to give time to. Not now. “I’m trying my best, Brian.”

Brian let out a wounded noise, pushing himself off of the wall to stride over to Freddie. He pulled him into a tight hug, paying no mind to the newly lit cigarette that was dangerously close to burning a hole in the jumper his mother had gifted him for Christmas. Freddie held himself stiff for all of a moment before he let the fag fall to the ground and buried his face in Brian’s shoulder and clung on for dear life, breaths shuddering out of him heavily as he tried with all his might to hold onto the thin veneer of composure that was all that was keeping him from completely falling apart. Here, on a freezing balcony with a lit fag slightly too close to his socked feet for comfort, and a car alarm still keeping time in the gloom of the late January morning.

“I’m sorry,” Brian muttered, clutching him all the tighter. “I know you are, Fred. I know you’re doing your best, I know. God, I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

Freddie breathed in deeply, taking in the comfort that comes from the scent of someone you trust with all of you even if, perhaps, not entirely with those whom you love more than yourself, before he nudged him away.

“God,” he grumbled, forcing himself to laugh in a play for unaffected as he ran ragged nails under his eyes. “You’ve got a real knack for turning us into wrecks haven’t you, Bri?”

Brian flinched back, his face crumpling briefly before he smoothed it out, “Yeah. Yeah, I reckon I do, Freds.”

“Shit,” Freddie said, abortively reaching out to Brian. “I’m sorry, that was… That was a dickish thing to say, I’m sorry.”

“No,” said Brian, shaking his head. His curls flew about his head dizzyingly, and Freddie let himself focus on the way they moved through the air instead of the yawning cavern of _stressanxietysadnessscaredscaredscared_ that he’d been ignoring so successfully for fucking months now, learnt to live with years ago, that was now hungrily expanding in the pit of his stomach like some kind of monster from the depths of his psyche that could no longer be placated with the knowledge that Roger was breathing just two rooms over; he was breathing now, he knew, but he also knew that the continuation of that breathing was never wholly guaranteed, and that any certainty was dependent on _him_. “Don’t apologise, Freddie. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the things I said earlier, for the way I said them. I didn’t…. I was selfish, Freds. I couldn’t face—”

Brian cut off abruptly, his mouth twisting as if he was physically struggling to continue: “I couldn’t face that Roger isn’t well; that’s he’s sick and that he needs help. I let myself think that it was okay for me to ignore because _you_ were dealing with it but I never stopped to think that you were dealing with it by yourself, and I’m _sorry_ for that. I’m so sorry, Freddie.”

“It wasn’t—” Freddie began, brow furrowed as his eyes tracked the earnest expression which Brian wore genuinely. “It _isn’t_ a burden, Brian. That isn’t…. Or if it is it’s one I’ll bear happily for the rest of my days. You understand that, yeah? I’ll love Roger hard enough for the both us until the day I fucking well die.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” Brian said lowly, looking suddenly concerned. “Freddie, you shouldn’t have to love him enough for the both of you. None of us should, even though you know that we… I do,” he paused, tugging at a low hanging curl agitatedly. “You know that, right? I love him too, but it’s not enough, Freddie. He needs help.  _You_ need help.”

“I don’t need anything,” ripped out of Freddie before he could stop it, hanging in the air heavier than any of the still-lingering smoke. “I told you last night, earlier, whatever. I’ve been getting Roger through this all this time, and I can keep doing it. He’s fine if I’m here, okay? He’s fine. Hunky fucking dory. And it passes,” desperation dripped from his voice as he unconsciously leaned forward and into Brian’s space once more. “It passes. This too shall _fucking pass_.”

Brian opened his mouth, looking all too sad, before letting it fall shut again. He looked to his left and out onto the parking lot that lay beneath the balcony, softly lit up in the dreary greys of late winter still clinging onto life and the muted yellows of flickering streetlamps. They stood in silence for a long minute as Freddie struggled to, once again, get his breathing back under control.

“It doesn’t though,” Brian said finally, still looking out as he spoke. He really was, Freddie considered, quite classically beautiful. He had a face that was begging to be recreated in marble, all sharp contours and softly hollowed cheeks. “It doesn’t pass, not really. It’s never as bad as it is over the holidays, but it comes back. Maybe only for days at a time, weeks at the most. But it comes back, or maybe it never leaves.”

When Brian turned to look at him again his eyes were still lined with that same sadness from before that was… fucking enraging, actually. His eyes were lined with a sadness that Freddie didn’t feel he’d earned, a sadness that wasn’t his to hold — not when he was standing in front of the man that had physically held Roger’s life between his hands with blood-slick fingers grasping on with all the strength he possessed as he screamed at fucking _Siri_ for someone to help him. But then he looked at the way Brian’s hand was trembling as he clutched at the railing and the anger fell away again, and instead he just felt tired.

“I know,” he said, the words falling from his lips like molasses — syrupy slow and begging to be taken back. But there are things, he knew, that once admitted you couldn’t take back, couldn’t ignore, and couldn’t forget. But then, he supposed, if Brian was being brave perhaps that meant that he should be too. He paused as Brian curled in on himself at the admission, something expected but nonetheless unwelcome, “I’m sorry too.”

“Fred—” Brian started again, expression guileless as he shook his head once more.

“No,” interrupted Freddie, strength finding its way into his voice again as he curled his toes against the concrete to ground himself. “I’m sorry, Brian. I wasn’t fair either. You didn’t want to know about any of it, but Roger didn’t— _doesn’t_ want you to know either.”

“No,” said Brian, letting go of the rail to grab Roger’s pilfered lighter. He fiddled with the sparkwheel restlessly, “There’s a point when wilful ignorance can’t be excused anymore and… I guess I crossed that line without even realising. Jesus, even _John_ was putting shit together before I could so much as admit something was fucking wrong, Freddie.”

“Deaky was less emotionally invested,” Freddie insisted weakly, doggedly watching Brian’s fingers as he fiddled with the lighter.

“Are you really,” Brian said heavily, crossing his arms back against his chest and giving Freddie an unimpressed look as he met his gaze once more. “Going to try and defend me, Freds?”

“Someone’s got to seeing as how you’re fucking not,” Freddie said, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“With good reason, Freddie.”

“Well,” Freddie replied, affecting a haughty tone as he tugged his robe sleeves over his hands. The cold, no longer kept at bay by smoke nor anger, seeped into his bones. “If we’re gonna turn this into a pity parade, Bri, I’m gonna leave you to it.”

“I—” Brian stuttered, eyes wide.

“I’m fucking with you, Bri,” Freddie said with a roll of his eyes, stretching out his shoulders. The anxiety in the pit of his stomach quietened as he and Brian settled once more into a semblance of their normal dynamic, “Are we gonna stand out here all night, or do you think we could relocate to, oh, I don’t know... Our bedroom?”

“It’s morning, Freddie,” Brian said, looking faintly outraged at Freddie’s unexpected turn towards flippancy. “And I found you out here! Not the other way around, you knob.”

“I don’t recall,” Freddie said dismissively, toeing the long dead fag by his foot over the balcony edge before breezing past Brian to enter the flat. “‘Tis all but a blur, I’m afraid.”

Behind him, Brian swore as he stumbled in after him, stubbing his toe on the stoop: “Wanker.”

 

* * *

  


Freddie stumbled out of bed, pushing the duvet off of his head reluctantly, to his and Brian’s room awash with the soft glow of the mid-afternoon as the weak January sun fought valiantly to dispel the solemn dullness of late winter. Brian, of course, was already absent from his own bed. He’d probably migrated to doze on the sofa once Deaky had begun making noise in the kitchen as he often did after a poor night’s sleep. Of all of them, Brian had the most trouble sleeping, though Roger too had his phases of manic wakefulness. Roger’s own insomnia was generally, however, the result of some chemical help — not that Freddie could judge, given how he himself was partial to a little chemical indulgence perhaps slightly more often than could be strictly considered ‘casual’; fuck, it had been too long — whereas Brian’s was an inexplicable and often distressing affliction that paid little mind to the poor dear’s social, work, or university commitments.

Freddie had spent many a long few minutes daubing concealer over the dark circles under Brian’s eyes and tutting at sallow skin while Roger fretted in the background over whether they should cancel a gig.

Shuffling into the house shoes he kept by the bed, Freddie took a deep breath and walked out into the hallway.

The flat had been a new minefield day after day for the past few months. Each day bringing something new, and usually unpleasant, upon which to enter into. He would never admit it to anyone but himself, but it was utterly exhausting. Roger was exhausting, always, but at least familiar. Brian had been dipping his toes in the unknown, becoming something almost impossible to predict. And Deaky was… a variable that Freddie couldn’t quite equate: his mere presence made the familiar something deviant.

Everything was tiring and Freddie was fucking exhausted trying to make everything, everyone, viable.

Laughter, Brian’s soft cadence, came from the living room and reeled him in before he’d had so much as a chance to consider the temptation the kettle posed in the kitchen. Stopping in the doorway of the living room he blinked owlishly at the scene in front of him. On the sofa, as he’d expected, was Brian all bundled up with his duvet over his head. Only a few stray tufts of curls, poking out and straight ahead, in defiance of both gravity and Brian’s usual styling attempts, identified the bundle of bedding as his roommate. In the corner, curled up on the armchair he’d claimed for his own, was Deaky — suffering good naturedly under the attentive hands of Roger who was…

Showered, dressed, and letting out horribly unattractive giggle-snort’s that had him scrunching up his nose and looking, at least in side profile, not entirely unlike Piglet from _Winnie the Pooh_ as he finished messily tying John’s hair into lopsided buns on either side of his head.

“ _I_ ,” Roger declared, hopping down from his precariously balanced position kneeling on the arm of Deaky’s chair only to then hitch his leg back up onto the arm again to rest his hand on. Given that the height of the armrest hit somewhere around Roger’s groin — it was high backed monstrosity of a thing — the position looked incredible uncomfortable. Roger, however, gave no indication that this was the case as he continued: “Think you look fucking adorable, Deaky.”

“You look like you’ve been _attacked_ ,” Brian said, laughter softening the edges of his voice and threatening to overcome the sentence entirely by the time he reached the end of it.

“Sorry, but we won’t be taking criticism from the furnishings at this time,” Roger said dismissively, flicking his hair over his shoulder as he reached over to tug lightly at one of John’s buns. It unravelled immediately.

“Excellent craftsmanship,” said John drolly, blowing wayward strands out of his eyes. His eyes flicked to Freddie and he shot him a quick wink, “No, really, Rog. Think you’ve got a career in this if the biologist gig doesn’t pan out.”

“Oh, fuck you,” laughed Roger, pushing lightly at John’s head as he turned to see what, or who, John had winked at. Freddie felt the breath catch in his throat as Roger turned to face him, half contorted with his leg still up on the arm rest and a hand laying casually on John’s shoulder, and already smiling only to brighten further upon meeting Freddie’s gaze. “Fred!”

“Well, good morning,” Freddie greeted, letting his hand fall from where it had been clutching at the lapel of his robe. “John, I have to agree with Roger, darling. You look marvellous.”

“Thank fuck you’re awake, Fred,” Roger said, slumping onto the floor unceremoniously and resting his head against the side of the chair. John’s hand came down immediately to card long, sure fingers through his hair — Roger tilted his head back just long enough to smack a kiss to John’s palm. “These boring lugs don’t want to come out tonight.”

“Oh?” asked Freddie, moving further in the room and draping himself over Brian’s lap. With the available chairs taken by Brian and John, and Roger’s legs splayed out in the centre of the room, Brian’s lap seemed the most comfortable of options given his blanket cocoon. And, what with their overabundance of deep and meaningful conversations the night before, Brian was the least likely to shove him off.

Laying across Brian on the sofa, his face came finally into view. Brian rolled his eyes at him but made no motion to move him along, and Freddie allowed himself to relax fully into his position.

“Not sure going out’s the best idea is all,” Brian muttered, a hand protruding from his duvet fortress to poke at Freddie’s ankle.

“Well, why not?” asked Roger exasperatedly, watching Brian with expectation.

In response Brian looked to John with something close to panic lining his eyes. John widened his eyes in return, shaking his head slightly. The remaining bun wobbled precariously.

“Is there a reason or not, darlings?” Freddie asked, kicking Brian’s hand from his ankle as he did so.

In all honesty he knew the reason why. It was patently obvious that neither Brian nor John thought it was a brilliant idea to take Roger, who after the past near fortnight of depressive moping around the flat, which had included a great deal of calling in sick to work and general lack of self care, had seemingly rebounded into his usual self, out on the town. And, well. Freddie had been the same once upon a time. Back when this had been something new, something that he had hoped would fade away permanently if given enough attention and care. Hell, Freddie had been the same a month ago. But Freddie was _tired_. Had been tired, in fact, for years now.

It wasn’t Roger’s fault, and he’d fight any bastard who tried to insinuate that it was, but loving him when he wasn’t well was hard. It was a hard bloody slog from day to night and then back again. If convincing Roger to stay in and watch Countdown with them would make him better in the morning then Freddie would do it in a heartbeat. If having him stay in and watch Countdown with them every night of the week meant that Roger would never again sink into the emotionless void he seemed to inhabit during his darkest days then, by God, Freddie would be the first one sat on the sofa every fucking time — you’d be able to set a clock by him. But it didn’t. It didn’t make him better. It just meant that the few good days he had, the miraculous days that came out of nowhere and had your breath catching in your throat as you realised that your best friend was _back_ , were wasted on petty arguments.

Because if what Brian and John were doing was obvious to him? It was certainly obvious to Roger, whose casual sprawl on the floor was betrayed just ever so slightly by the way his right hand was balled up in a fist and beating an even rhythm against his thigh even as he leaned further into Deaky’s touch.

(“Perhaps we shouldn’t have gone out the other night, sweetheart,” Freddie whispered, trailing a hesitant hand over the curve of Roger’s shoulder under his bedding. “A come down is a bitch of a time as is, let alone when you’re… already not feeling well.”

“S’fine, Freddie,” Roger slurred, half asleep and half simply uncaring for the effort required to enunciate his words. “Wassa good nigh’. Had fun.”

“I know, but…” Freddie trailed off, listening to Brian rummage around on his own in the kitchen. He’d gotten back last night and while he hadn’t explicitly mentioned Roger’s uncharacteristic absence from the shared spaces of the flat, he had been shooting Roger’s bedroom door little glances when he thought Freddie couldn’t see. The benefit, Freddie supposed, of Brian’s recent addition to their flat was that it had rather more been his idea than theirs upon the end of his previous lease. As such, he didn’t seem to feel quite comfortable questioning their odder habits quite yet such as the preposterously high setting of the thermostat, or Freddie’s semi-frequent nude Dance Dance Revolution tournaments. “You seem a little low, is all. Lower than normal. You know me, I worry like a mother hen.”

“Ugh,” mumbled Roger, flinging an arm out from under his duvet to grapple at Freddie. Getting a good grip around his waist he tugged him down, pulling him over himself until he was wedged firmly between Roger and the dresser that stood to the side of his bed. “I’m fine, babe. Leave it.”

Freddie wriggled down a smidge, huffing out a breath as Roger lifted the duvet up for him. Instinctively their legs tangled together, and Freddie let his head fall down low so that he could rest with his nose buried in the hollow Roger’s throat. While Roger tended to crave heat when he was feeling down, he had nothing on Freddie who could probably be set on fire and thank you for the honour after the fact. Roger draped the duvet over him, drowning him in dim lighting and Roger’s comforting scent that always made him feel at home.

Sometimes, when thoughts such as that crossed the forefront of his mind, Freddie understood why so many people assumed they were a couple. Pressing his nose even closer, enjoying the ticklish way the patchy stubble on Roger’s upper neck rubbed at his forehead, Freddie could admit that perhaps there were other reasons people tended to assume that as well.

“It’s not your job to protect me,” Roger said as Freddie relaxed fully against him. It was strange, but he missed their shared days wasted away in bed together when these awful weeks passed. There were, of course, still a truly ridiculous amount of shared naps regardless of their, historically not great, mental health statuses. However, there was a pervasive sense of intimacy that came from being someone’s only, in that very moment, tangible connection to the universe.

“I know,” Freddie replied, reaching blindly for Roger’s hand and squeezing tight as their fingers interlocked as if, despite being as close to one another as physically possible without the removal of clothing, Roger needed a reminder that he was there.

Or perhaps, he thought, it was he himself that needed reassuring. It was hard to tell, sometimes, just who it was he was trying to soothe.

“Just maybe the drinking wasn’t such a brilliant idea, dear. You know, in hindsight?” he leant his head back, catching the duvet and allowing enough of a gap to form that he could peek out at Roger. An effort that was, as it turned out, wasted given that Roger’s eyes weren’t even open. “And the coke was…. Definitely not.”

Roger stayed silent.

“We could…. Go to the cinema next time?” Freddie continued, a little desperate now as Roger remained unresponsive. He knew he wasn’t actually asleep, he was much too still for that. Roger was a notoriously restless sleeper; he woke up on the floor on an all too regular basis.

“I didn’t want to go to the fuckin’ cinema, Freddie,” Roger bit out, opening his eyes and glaring down at him. “I wanted to go _out_.”

“Righ—”

“No, please,” said Roger, shoving himself up and against the headboard. Freddie slid down further until his head was positioned awkwardly just next to Roger’s navel, Roger’s hand wrenched from his own. “Tell me, Fred. What we gonna go see? _Monsters_ fuckin’ _Inc_ so you can coddle me some more?”

“Rog,” Freddie sighed, keeping still and eyeing Roger warily. Tension, always waiting to spring when Roger was like this, coiled under his skin dangerously. Sometimes it felt as if he were on a tightrope and on one side lay the potential for borderline catatonia, on the other spitting rage; if he reached the end perhaps Roger would both shower _and_ eat three meals — but he was just as likely to not. It was hard when Roger got angry about being coddled over the smallest of infringements on his autonomy not to start arguing back at the sheer ungratefulness.

But then he’d remember the whispered apologies that always came later. The tears that were part penance and part self loathing. The sincere thanks spoken steadily and without prompt when he felt better.

It wasn’t truly ungratefulness, he knew. It was a horrible, frustrated sense of impotence.

“I wanted—” Roger said, lips drawn taut, before cutting himself off sharply. He looked away, across the room and out of the window. His thumb was rubbing across an angry looking blister on the inside of his index finger, his nail digging in on every second swipe. Freddie fought the urge to take his hand back into his own. He had to pick his battles, he knew.

He waited.

“I wanted to be Freddie and Roger,” Roger finally finished, voice barely pitched above a mumble. “For a night, I just wanted to be Freddie and Roger again.”)

“Uh,” John said after a long and uncomfortable pause which had quite clearly been spent by both Brian and John wracking their brains for acceptable excuses. “I’m meant to be spending the night with Ronnie, actually. Sorry.”

Freddie rose his eyebrows at him, unimpressed. John quirked an eyebrow right back.

“Well, that’s that,” Brian said, shooting Roger an unconvincing attempt at an apologetic smile. He shrugged, his duvet sliding down around his shoulders: “We wouldn’t want to go without John.”

Freddie could only assume that that last part had come out as completely insincere as a result of Brian’s generally terrible acting ability as a whole and not because he was hiding a deep, secret hatred for Deaky.

“That would be terrible, yes,” deadpanned John as he side eyed Brian who, after checking to make sure Roger was looking at his phone, mouthed an apology to him. John rolled his eyes.

Freddie pursed his lips, “Just you and I then, dearest.”

“Hmm,” replied Roger, frowning down at his phone as his fingers flew across the screen at a mile a minute — most likely, Freddie guessed, reaching out to the usual suspects to find out who was going to be where for the night.

“It’ll be just like old times,” Freddie said wistfully, his enthusiasm building at the prospect. They hadn’t had a night out, just the two of them, since just after John had moved in. He ignored the baleful look John was shooting him and Brian’s resumed prodding at his ankle, now a steady presence every couple of seconds. “I wonder if Mar—”

“Veronica’s coming!” Roger announced brightly, his tone edged with victory as he tilted his head back to grin smugly at John — all teeth, and no room for arguing.

“Oh,” said John faintly. “Is she?”

“Yep!” said Roger, popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously and batting his eyes faux-innocently up at John.

“I suppose I’m in then,” John said reluctantly, taking his hand from Roger’s head at last to fiddle with the cuff of his jumper. Brian was outright glaring at him now, and John ducked his head to avoid it. Freddie kicked the lanky shite again.

“Well, Jesus Christ, Deaks,” Roger huffed out exasperatedly, a frown marring his face from the moment John had begun to extract his fingers from Roger’s hair. “No need to sound _so_ excited to spend time with us. It’s a night out on the town, not a fuckin’ funeral, mate.”

Brian shifted uncomfortably under him and Freddie gave him another kick.

John went to reply, brow furrowed as he opened his mouth. In a way it was oddly entertaining to watch the other two navigate the potential emotional minefield that Roger personified without the map that the two of them had drawn together over the years to light the way. Of course, the entertainment was generally overcome by the ever present anxiety that one of them was about to step foot on a mine. Whatever John had been about to say, however, was cut off when Roger continued.

“Nah, don’t worry about it, Deaky,” he said, standing and stretching. His grin firmly back in place he gestured over to Freddie with one hand and began typing on his phone again with the other, “Freds and I will have a sick night, just us. I’ll let Veronica know not to bother, it’s all good.”

Freddie weighed the pros and cons of helping John out. He could, theoretically, wade back into the conversation and throw him a bone. Roger had just given him an opening, after all. He could perhaps smooth things over and have John agree to come out with them — laugh the whole situation off with a flippant, ‘Oh, Roger, dear. Can’t you see the poor boy’s terrified you’ll steal his sweetheart away from him by the end of the night?’ or some other such empty platitude. But then, the chances of said conversational life raft actually staying afloat were rather dependent on the good behaviour of not only John who, given his rather panicky look at the souring of Roger’s mood and the simmering tension taking over the room, would most likely go along with anything Freddie suggested, but also on Brian. Brian, who had a stubborn set to his jaw as he watched everything play out that boded not at all well.

No, thought Freddie. The risks weren’t worth it, not given how easily an over emotional Roger turned on even his staunchest allies; a sad and anxious paranoia borne of a startlingly low self esteem that lay deep in his chest transforming to his mind even the most innocuous of statements into dangerous barbs which threatened the tenuous and all too ephemeral contentment that settled over him on these strange and unpredictable days of almost normalcy. Roger had a hair trigger temper on the best of days, but like this he had a hair trigger _everything_. More than one inexplicable good day — miraculous oasis’ in the endless desert that these infernal weeks dragged into — had been destroyed in the past over conversations that had been much less fraught than this one had shaped itself into.

At the end of the day, Freddie missed his best friend. He would reclaim him only for the night if that was all that was offered to him, and he’d do it at the expense of Brian and John if he had to. He didn’t care if that made him selfish — not today. Today he didn’t care one fucking bit.

John looked unsure as how to respond, his own phone lighting up with messages on his lap that he appeared determined to ignore for the time being. Roger seemed to be flagging, bravado leaking from his posture with every passing second spent under the combined gazes of the three of them.

Brian cleared his throat purposefully.

“Well, darling!” Freddie exclaimed, pouncing onto his feet gracefully and hooking an arm around Roger’s waist. “We need to pick outfits! London’s nightlife hasn’t been graced with our presence since New Years! A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, to be sure.”

Roger smiled at him brightly, latching onto the positivity he was enthusiastically exuding gratefully, “We may have to remind them who we are, Fred.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Freddie scolded, pinching his cheek. Roger turned just soon enough to dart a quick kiss to the tips of his fingers as he pulled away, an action that had Freddie diving in to kiss both of his cheeks in retaliation. “We’re _Freddie and Roger_ , honeypie.”

“Fuck yeah, we are!” Roger said with a laugh, grabbing Freddie’s hand and spinning him around. Freddie laughed as his robe whipped around his legs, getting hopelessly entangled until he almost fell over. He stumbled a little as he righted himself, almost too caught up in Roger’s laughter to notice the disapproving look that Brian was sporting.

“Come on,” Freddie said, sticking his tongue out at Brian childishly. It was easy to get caught up in the rush of it all when Roger was right there and _happy_. He tugged at Roger’s hand, pulling him towards the door. “Brian and John,” he continued, affecting a comically dull tone. “Can join us later if they decide to stop being such fun vampires.”

“Fun vampires?” Roger snorted, allowing himself to be pulled easily into Freddie’s room.

“Yeah, you know,” Freddie said, flipping on the bedroom light — the afternoon sun now having given way for the gloom of an overcast pre-dusk, the dull grey’s of which amounted to precisely the aesthetic ambience he was trying to _avoid_ , thank you — and gesturing to Brian’s side of the room distractedly. “They suck out all of the fun, dear.”

Roger collapsed onto Brian’s bare mattress with a soft ‘oomph’. He bounced once; twice; three times, and cocked his head with a cheeky grin as the bed springs protested the movement more than loudly enough to be heard from the living room.

“Oh,” he said, tone ponderous as he let himself fall back fully onto the mattress and stared up at the now long dead glow in the dark stars he had, in a pique of unsubtle romanticism, stuck above Brian’s bed last February.

(“I mean, they’re lovely, Rog,” Brian had said hesitantly, laying back awkwardly on his bed and looking up at them. Next to the bed, grinning down at him, was Roger. “It’s just, well. Are you sure they won’t damage the ceiling?”

“Don’t be boring,” sighed Roger, flopping down next to him on the bed. “Now you’ve got something pretty to look at when I come in and requisition you for a nap!”

Freddie, being the damn good friend that he was in the bed opposite by remaining until this point silent, choked on a laugh: “Yes, I’m sure he’ll be looking at the _stars_.”)

“Thought you meant, like,” Roger made a so-so gesture with his hand. “That they were _fun_ vampires instead of regular boring vampires. Wasn’t sure if you had some kind of vampire hierarchy.”

“I mean,” said Freddie consideringly as he opened his wardrobe. “I do, but not that’s not quite where I was going with that one.”

Roger heaved himself back up again and swivelled around to face Freddie proper, legs splayed wide and head propped up on his fist as he watched him flick through garments. As quickly as a piece of clothing was stopped on and considered, it was discarded as no good. Freddie paused on a sequined jacket, grabbing it to chuck on his bed. Perhaps.

“Alright, Team Edward,” Roger drawled teasingly, eyes lingering on the jacket.

A beat, and then.

“Fuck you,” Freddie hissed, whirling around with a feather boa clutched to his chest. “We don’t talk about that!”

“A shame really,” said Roger, smirk firmly in place as Freddie let out an ungodly shriek and chucked the feather boa at him. He caught it easily and slipped it around his neck, “Mine now.”

Freddie pointed a finger at him accusingly, trying valiantly to keep his own smile under wraps as he squinted at him: “I see you. This was all a ploy to get my boa, I know you. I know your tricks.”

“No,” said Roger steadily, rubbing the end of the boa against his cheek smugly. “I just forgot until now about your Twilight phase. Do you think Mama Jer still has the cardboard cut out in the loft, or—”

Freddie launched himself at him, knocking him back against the mattress and wrestled him into submission. It wasn’t all that hard, unusual given how bloody vicious Roger could be with his elbows when he felt like it, as Roger was laughing too hard to really put up much of a fight. He snatched the boa back and, standing once more, tied it around his waist in an approximation of a championship belt.

“I was going to let you have first dibs on the jacket, but it’s mine now,” Freddie said haughtily, fluffing his hair as he turned back to the wardrobe. On the windowsill an old and abandoned cup of tea caught his eye.

“Thank God,” cackled Roger, kicking out and catching him on the arse. “Wouldn’t want you to get me confused with your vampire lover, Freds.”

“Right,” said Freddie, snatching the up the tea. “I warned you,” and with that he turned and dumped the contents of the mug over Roger’s prone form on the bed.

Roger spluttered, spitting cold tea out of his mouth and scrambling upwards to push sodden hair from his eyes: “Oh my God!”

“I warned you,” Freddie repeated unapologetically, turning to place the mug back on the windowsill.

“Oh my God,” Roger repeated quieter, though sounding amused now that the shock was passing. He shook his hair out like a dog, splattering Freddie with droplets of tea: “Brian’s going to fucking _kill_ you, Freddie.”

“Yeah,” said Freddie, glancing quickly at the bedroom door as if Brian would burst in at any moment. “We’d better hurry.”

 

* * *

 

Freddie laughed as Phoebe regaled them all with his latest blind date fiasco, leaning heavily onto Roger who was giggle-snorting into his hair like the heathen he was. A true romantic at heart, Phoebe didn’t trust dating apps of any kind but had, for as long as Freddie had known him, been utterly desperate for the ‘spark of true love to set his world alight’.

That was a direct quote, by the way.

A non-believer of the ways in which technology had invaded the romantic realm, Phoebe went on a fuck tonne of blind dates, most of which went disastrously. Freddie fucking adored him. Where Freddie found himself often morosely contemplating the prospect of his impending spinsterhood — and, God. Kash had declared just last year in the middle of Mother’s Day lunch, that she had absolutely no intention of having any children herself, thank you _very_ much, which left his poor parents depending on _Roger_ for grandchildren — Phoebe was eternally optimistic about the both of them finding their soulmates sooner or later even if he had to make his way through each and every LGBTQ+ speed dating event in the greater metropolitan area to do so.

“Pheebs,” Roger moaned, face still buried in Freddie’s hair. He peeked out and over the table at Phoebe, “Tell me you didn’t….” Phoebe merely grimaced guiltily, “Babe, please tell me you didn’t.”

“I felt bad!” Phoebe said, letting his head fall forward and into his hands. “He went to all that trouble with the fish and then, you know, the thing with the glowsticks—”

“One does not,” Freddie stated with the confidence of the absolutely pissed. “Give blowies out of _pity_ , Phoebe.”

Chrissie, sat next to Phoebe, nodded sagely.

“You can accept one out of pity,” Roger said, fumbling for his packet of smokes that was laid in the middle of the table — they were all freezing their tits off in the smokers area for Roger’s benefit so it had been deemed only fair that he share with the rest of them. “Like,” he paused to inhale his first drag. “You know they’re never gonna land someone as hot as you again, so you let them go down on you so they have something fond to look back on, yeah?”

Mack, until now listening with the detached boredom of which he was renowned, snorted and flicked the ash off of his fag into the beer bottle they’d requisitioned as an ashtray: “That’s just you, Taylor.”

“Fuck you, you German ponce,” Roger threw back, sticking his tongue out at him. “Is not.”

“Sorry,” said Mack, affecting an air of confusion. “Was that you suggesting I should blow you because I’ll never land anyone has hot as you again?”

“That would require you to land me in the first place, babe,” said Roger, blowing him a kiss.

Mack barked out a laugh, leaning over to bop Roger on the nose, “Touché.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Chrissie, setting her gin and tonic down with a bang. “I should set you up with my friend, M—”

“ _Mark_ ,” they all groaned in unison.

Chrissie frowned, “Oh, have I already introduced you two?”

Phoebe, sweetheart that he was, worried at his bottom lip with his teeth for a long moment as he attempted to come up with a diplomatic answer.

“Honey,” said Freddie softly, reaching over to clasp her hands. “You’ve set them up _twice_ now, and every time we come out you try and do it again.”

“Did I?” said Chrissie, brow furrowed. She took her hands back from Freddie, waving one flippantly, “Oh, I’ve set you up on so many dates, Pheebs. I forget who you’ve already met. What was wrong with Mark, then?”

“He’s a cunt,” grunted Mack, taking a drink of his overpriced microbrew.

“I fucked him in a portaloo at Leeds last year,” said Roger with a shrug.

“... It was more the cunt thing that was the issue,” Phoebe said with a sheepish smile.

“I should hope so,” Chrissie replied, reaching over to snatch Roger’s fag from his hand and taking a deep drag. She held it out of his reach as he attempted to steal it back, blowing the smoke into his face, “If we were to disqualify everyone Roger’s ever slept with, you’d not have many options left.”

Roger’s jaw dropped and he let out an incredulous laugh. Chrissie was a quiet one, but when she let rip she was quite the spitfire, “Bitch!”

“Me- _ow_ ,” Freddie gasped, making a clawing motion with the hand not clutching his drink. “Mumma’s getting fiesty! Oh, I do love it when you get like this.”

“You know it, _darling’s_ ,” Chrissie drawled haughtily, draping herself over Mack in an almost uncanny impression of Freddie. Mack looked at her longsufferingly, staying perfectly still until she moved off of him once more. Mack generally always looked as if he would rather be anywhere else than wherever he happened to be at that moment. Freddie had once made the mistake of wondering whether he chose to look interested during sex and had had to make the conscious choice to never revisit the thought ever again for fear of losing his goddamn mind.

After, of course, sharing with Roger who he’d then had the pleasure of watching cycle through the five stages of grief within the span of about thirty seconds.

“Though it’s not really like you can talk, dear,” Freddie mused, tracing the rim of his cocktail absently. “Not if what I saw on Snap the other day was anything to go by, anyway.”

Chrissie blanched, picking up her drink and draining it in one, “God, don’t remind me.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” spluttered Roger, leaning forward. “That actually happened? I thought that was some fucked up fever dream or something, not…” he grinned widely at her. “Chrissie Mullen! You whore!”

“Tell me, Roger,” Mack said, leaning in again as he swiped another smoke. “Do you often have pornographic fever dreams about Chrissie sucking off random blokes?”

“I sent it to _everyone_ ,” Chrissie moaned as Roger flipped Mack off, Mack saluting him with his poncy beer in response. “My bloody mum saw it.”

“Well,” said Freddie with a shrug, gesturing through the window to the bartender for another round. It was early enough in the night that they were still doing table service, though Freddie had a sneaking suspicion that the agreeability of the bar staff had more to do with the low cut nature of Chrissie’s dress than anything else seeing as how none of the other patrons were having their drinks brought to them. “We’ve all been there, sweetheart.”

Mack paused ever so briefly before nodding glumly, and Phoebe blushed. Roger just looked between them all, his facial expression a cross between horrified and intrigued, “I don’t think I’ve ever been as grateful for my fucking disownment as I am now, you weird fucks.”

“I see I’ve arrived for the light and breezy part of the evening,” came Veronica’s voice, a tray of drinks balanced on one hand as she looked down at them. She looked significantly better than she had the last time he’d seen her, Freddie thought. Though, he considered, it probably wasn’t all that hard to look better than you did on New Year’s Day. It was why you had to go out and get wankered the night before, after all. You had to start the year on such a low that it could really only improve from there on out. “Should I pass out the drinks before I start unloading my family traumas, or would you all like something to look forward to once I’m done?”

“Veronica!” Roger shouted exuberantly, scrambling out of his seat. Veronica hastily set down the tray of drinks just in time as Roger draped himself over her in a drunken approximation of a hug, “What the fuck are you doing here? Is John coming?”

Across from Freddie Phoebe gestured at the two of them confusedly.

“She’s John’s girlfriend,” Chrissie hissed at him under her breath, smiling at the two of them genially in that way that women seemed prone to do when they weren’t quite sure yet whether or not they were going to get along with a new addition to their social circle. “Christ, have you given up on all technological advances now, Phoebe?”

“And she’s here without John?” asked Phoebe, watching Roger disentangle himself from Veronica with exaggerated care.

“She’s got balls,” mumbled Mack around the filter of his fag. “I wouldn’t be ‘round you lot if I could help it.”

“Be _nice_ ,” Freddie hissed at the three of them, eyes wide as he attempt to impart in the three of them at least a modicum of respectability. Phoebe, reaching over to grab his margarita, proceeded to topple three empty glasses.

“Well, I told him where I’d be,” Veronica said dismissively, giving Roger a quick peck on the cheek before hip checking Freddie’s shoulder. “Budge up, I’m dying for a smoke,” she said, settling in as Freddie did so and quickly lighting up. “I’m Ronnie, by the way,” she continued, when it became apparent that Phoebe and Chrissie were going to do little more than smile at her somewhat creepily. Mack, as usual, was ignoring everyone and staring into his beer.

“Oh, just ignore them, darling,” Freddie sighed, waving at them exasperatedly. “They’ve the social skills of drunk toddlers, but unfortunately they’re nowhere near as cute.”

Roger, in the ten seconds or so in which he had been left unwatched, had wandered off.

Veronica laughed gaily, smoke curling lazily from her mouth as she did so, “You have seen who I’m dating, right?”

“John’s the cutest of the bunch,” Chrissie said, reaching over and grabbing her drink from the tray as she did so. She raised it at Veronica before taking a sip, sighing with contentment.

“Yes,” agreed Veronica, ignoring Freddie’s outraged gasp and flailed slap against her shoulder. “But he’s also very, very stupid.”

“He’s a man, sweetie,” Chrissie said, raising her glass to clink with Veronica’s.

Freddie never ceased to be amazed at how quickly women could bond given one man to commiserate over. It always made him so very glad he was gay. Women were terrifying.

“Hey.”

Freddie looked up again to find Brian shifting from foot to foot next to him and shooting him a sheepish smile as he fiddled with the hem of his truly hideous scarf. It was an overly long piece of tat that tended to come undone and trail behind him until the ends were covered in mud and god knows what else. Freddie had attempted to covertly bin it on multiple occasions, but so far it had managed to survive his assassination attempts. One day, however, he was sure he would succeed.

“Hey guys,” Brian said a little louder, greeting the others who all mumbled their own greetings with various amounts of enthusiasm.

(“It’s almost as if,” Mack grumbled to Phoebe under his breath. “We didn’t set the meeting time for eight o’clock at all.”

“I did tell you that eight was way too early to be headed out, Mack,” Phoebe replied.)

“Where’s Rog?” Brian asked, dumping his coat and scarf on the seat next to Freddie and nodding at Roger’s lighter on the table.

Freddie gestured towards the bar inside, “Doing shots with some drag queens.”

Brian turned, and sure enough through the window Roger could be seen in his giant fuck off faux fur coat doing tequila slammers with a group of queen’s. The bartender appeared to be acting as a referee in some kind of capacity, blatently ignoring another group of patrons at the other end of the bar as he waved his dish towel to indicate they start their next round.

“Oh, yeah,” Brian said, laughing softly as the bartender pointed at Roger who, celebrating his victory, swept the closest drag queen into a low dip and gave her a hell of a kiss. “Could we, uh, have a chat?”

Ronnie next to him was politely pretending not to eavesdrop as she checked her phone, though Freddie couldn’t help but notice the multitude of unopened messages from Deaky which filled her homescreen. She raised an eyebrow as she caught him look and shrugged, mouthing ‘stupid’ at him with a roll of her eyes before turning back to the conversation going on between Chrissie and Phoebe.

“Sure,” Freddie said, shoving away from the table and heading back inside. Seeing that Roger and his new friends had absconded to a table at the back of the room, having seemingly sourced a pack of cards from God only knew where, he beelined for the bar. Brian loped behind him, taking a good minute longer to reach the bar despite his stupidly long legs for the amount of people he found the need to apologise to on his way as he passed them. “Shot,” he said to the bartender, shoving a fiver across to him.

“Of?” the bartender asked, looking unimpressed.

“Do I look like I give a damn?” Freddie replied, shooing him away from a flick of the wrist. The bartender rolled his eyes, slamming a miscellaneous liquid down in front of him mere seconds later. “Salute,” Freddie toasted to his back as he walked away, and knocked it back.

Ugh, sambuca. Wanker.

Brian finally made his way to the bar, frowning slightly as the bartender proceeded to ignore them completely. Brian was, generally speaking, quite difficult to ignore given his stature and ridiculous amount of hair but the bartender was doing remarkably well at not only doing so, but doing so in a way that appeared completely natural.

Brian sighed and, giving up the bartender as a lost cause, said: “I wanted to apologise.”

“Jesus,” Freddie said, surprised. “Twice in twenty four hours, Brian?” he reached over and set the back of his hand against his forehead, ignoring Brian’s attempts to duck away. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Fred!” Brian complained, swatting his hand away as he moved to press his fingers to the glands on his neck. “I’m being serious here.”

“Right,” Freddie sighed, leaning back up against the bar and gesturing for him to continue. “Please, Brian, let us have this serious conversation here, at this bar.”

Brian shot him a small glare, “I wanted to apologise because we, John and I, should have backed off when we realised you were good with Roger coming out tonight. You know what he needs better than we do, and we should have trusted you. I should have trusted you.”

“Okay?” said Freddie, flagging down the bartender with a waggle of two fingers that had him immediately pouring two more shots. He shoved him a tenner as he pushed the shots over, downing one. He really didn’t want to be wasting the night having yet another deep and meaningful conversation with Brian about the ins and outs of Roger’s mental health. They could do that at home while Roger took a twelve hour nap, not while Roger was over in the corner having what looked like a really bloody good time that Freddie was more than a little keen to join in on.

“We were just worried,” said Brian, soldiering on as he tended to do when he had something he wanted to get off of his chest regardless of whether the other party involved was interested in hearing it. “Because, you know. Booze is a depressant, and—”

Freddie cut him off with a laugh, pausing just long enough to down his second shot before continuing on again for a long few moments, “Is that what you and John’s intervention scene was about, dear?”

Brian nodded miserably. The bartender, taking pity perhaps, stopped by with another shot — for Brian this time. Brian didn’t hesitate in throwing it back, chucking a handful of coins onto the bar which, going by the bartender’s murderous expression, cemented their footing as the night’s worst customers.

“Oh, darling,” Freddie said, twirling a strand of hair around his index finger absently as he watched Roger in the corner. Roger looked up at that exact moment and sent him an over the top wink before diving right back into his card game. “Roger is almost certainly going to feel ten times worse in the morning than he did yesterday.”

“Wait, _what_?” spluttered Brian, the slump to his posture that he’d been sporting since his arrival disappearing at once upon the apparent reinstatement of his moral superiority. “Then why on earth wouldn’t you try and stop him?”

“Firstly,” said Freddie, holding a hand up. “Do you really think Roger was going to sit at home just because we decided to boycott a night out? Don’t be fucking ridiculous, Brian. He went on a bender just the other week, remember? None of us were with him then.” Brian went to argue and Freddie shook his head, “I’m not finished.” Brian closed his mouth sharply, and Freddie continued: “Secondly, I am not Roger’s keeper. Neither are you, nor John. He’s a fucking adult, Brian. He’s entitled, within reason, to make choices that aren’t necessarily in his best interests.”

A clear circle had formed around them as the other bar patrons avoided their tense conversation.

“I just want what’s best for him, Freds,” Brian said looking miserable once more.

Freddie bit back the immediate retort that sat on the tip of his tongue, ready to rip into Brian for daring to insinuate that he himself didn’t. He knew that wasn’t what Brian had been getting at, knew it would be arguing for the sake of arguing which was really, truly not how he wanted this night to go.

“Well, look at him,” Freddie replied softly, nodding over towards the back of the room. Veronica and Chrissy had now joined the table, and Roger had stood to make room for them. He was chatting to someone new, the two of them bent over Roger’s phone while Roger excitedly gesticulated along with whatever it was he was showing them. “Right now he’s enjoying himself with all of us. He’s having a good time and we’re having a good time with him. You gotta take the good days as they come. It’ll be tomorrow soon enough, Brimi.”

Before Brian so much had the chance to respond they were interrupted.

“Have you guys seen Veronica?” asked John, appearing out of thin bloody air and clutching his phone to his chest.

“Oh, fucking Christ,” Freddie muttered, turning back to the bar to desperately flag down the bartender once again.

“No more shots,” the bartender said, scowling.

“Fine,” Freddie snapped back. It wasn’t worth arguing about the amount of shots he’d seen Roger and the queens throw back not half an hour before, not given that he was relying on this guy not to spit in his drink. “Long Island Iced Tea, thanks.”

The bartender stared at him for a long moment, and Freddie liked to think that he could actually hear the guy counting to ten in his head. “£7.50,” he bit out, snatching the tenner from Freddie’s hand and stomping off to the register.

“She’s over in the corner with Chrissie and the drag queens,” Freddie said, finally answering John who, peering over and seeing her with an ace of spades stuck to her forehead, relaxed against the bar.

“I think she’s mad at me,” John mumbled, setting his phone down on the bar where his open messages to Veronica could be seen.

Freddie leaned in to look, Brian craning over his shoulder to do the same, and scrolled backward. After two scrolls and no replies from Veronica in sight to John’s ever more pathetic texts, Freddie leaned back again: “She is.”

“Definitely,” agreed Brian.

“Fuck,” John groaned, head falling onto the bar.

“What did you do?” Brian asked, patting him on the shoulder consolingly.

John mumbled something unintelligible into the bar.

The bartender made his way back over, finally, with Freddie’s cocktail. He snatched it impatiently, sticking his tongue out as the guy buggered back off to the other end of the bar at a much faster pace than the one he had employed walking over with his drink.

“Yeah, honey,” Freddie said after taking a long sip. The great thing about Long Island’s was that while they were fucking disgusting concoctions, they were also fucking deadly. “We didn’t get a bloody word of that, I’m afraid.”

John sat back up, looking quite pathetic as he mumbled: “Told her she wasn’t allowed to come tonight.”

Freddie and Brian both took a step back.

“I know I fucked up,” John said, looking between the two of them more than a little desperately. “I just panicked!”

“You’re a dead man walking, my love,” Freddie said sadly, taking another long sip of his drink. “Why do the good bassists die young?”

John groaned again, returning to his previous position as he attempted to meld with the bar, “What do I do?”

“There is actually no helping you,” Brian said, sounding a little awed. You knew you’d fucked up when Brian was impressed by the magnitude of your fuck up in a relationship; Brian who had once answered the name of another man while playing Who Would You Rather at a dorm party with his then current partner sitting right there next to him as the rather obvious choice. “You can beg for mercy and that’s about it.”

“I have!” John moaned, looking across the room at Veronica miserably.

“Maybe not while she’s trying to enjoy the night out you said she couldn’t have?” Freddie suggested with a shrug, fishing the orange garnish out from the top of his cocktail to suck on. He chewed on it for a moment before pulling it out again, “I mean, really, John. What the fuck?”

“I’m an arse,” John said dully.

“Yeah,” agreed Freddie.

“There’s my favourite people!” was all the warning Freddie received before he found himself the recipient of a patented Happy Drunk Roger Taylor hug. Somehow, in defiance to all the laws of nature, Roger seemed to grow an extra three or four limbs after a certain amount of booze which turned him into something akin to an affectionate octopus. Pulling off just far enough to sling an arm around Freddie’s shoulder and grin at John and Brian he proceeded to sing song in Freddie’s ear: “I got you a gi- _ift_!”

“If it’s not a couple of lines, I’m not interested,” Freddie said, shooting him a cheeky wink. He was somewhat joking.

Roger peeled off of Freddie fully to gesture dramatically at a man he’d pulled over with him who had gone, until now, unnoticed. Freddie squinted at him in the dimness of the bar before he took another step forward and he realised just who it was.

“And get this! He’s neither in a relationship nor just been brutally dumped in a public venue!” Roger chattered excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a puppy who had just presented his owner with his first stick. Freddie did feel a little as if he’d been presented with a stick, to be fair. If by ‘presented’ you meant ‘hit over the fucking head’.

“... Well, thanks for that glowing introduction,” said Jim drolly, stood now with his hands in his pockets and looking way too attractive for someone wearing an outfit which could only be described as ‘Primark lumberjack’.

“I covered all the important details,” Roger said dismissively with a grin. “And I even requested that no Avril Lavigne songs be played for the rest of the night. You know, just in case.”

“I’m Jim,” Jim said, ignoring Roger and holding out his hand to Freddie who eagerly went to shake it. About a second too late he remembered the sticky residue from his decision to fish out his orange garnish.

“Oh, we know your name,” said Roger entirely unprompted, apparently determined to make this entire interaction as mortifying for Freddie as possible. “Freddie stalks your Insta, like, at least once a week.”

If the ground could have opened up and swallowed Freddie whole, he honestly would have been grateful. His eyes darted over to Brian who was watching everything unfold with genuine horror, and then to John who had somehow acquired two drinks, one for each hand, and had a straw for both in his mouth as he watched eagerly. Two very different audiences for what was shaping up to be his eternal shame.

Jim, sweet blessed Jim, continued to ignore Roger completely. “Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, subtly wiping his hand on his jeans.

“I’ve, uh, already got one,” Freddie said panickedly, shoving said drink in Jim’s face as proof.

An awkward silence grew between them, made only worse by the knowledge that Roger, Brian, and John were all watching. Jim seemed unsure as where to go with the conversation now. Freddie hadn’t exactly turned him down, but he hadn’t exactly said yes either.

“For fucks sake,” muttered Roger, snatching the drink Freddie was still holding out in front of himself out of his hand and downing it in one long swallow. Jim was watching him, his previously unimpressed expression now lightening into one of reluctant admiration as Roger spun around the slam the empty glass onto the bar. He turned back around with an eyebrow quirked, blink slowly at them with wide eyes as if to say ‘well then?’

The silence crept back again and remained unbroken for another long moment until Deaky reached the end of his drinks, straws letting out a loud gurgling noise as he chased the dregs at the bottom of the glasses. Brian, stood next to him, shot him a look of disbelief. John blinked back at him innocently.

“Do I have to fuck him for you too? Christ,” Roger swore, pushing at Jim’s arm roughly until he pitched forward towards Freddie. “He hasn’t got a drink anymore, has he? Buy him one!”

“Right,” said Jim, blinking. “Sure, uh. Another Long Island?”

“Can’t stand Long Island’s,” Freddie said on autopilot, eyes wide as he watched Roger drag Brian and John away from them muttering all the while about how he had to everything ‘his damn self’. Looking back he saw Jim glance at his empty drink before he nodded.

“Okay… What would you like then?” Jim asked, flagging the bartender.

And Freddie, too flustered to think of the name of any other drink, replied: “Long Island?”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh. so. this is. long. unedited, as always. bit, very rough. will come back and fix up at some point. really hop skipped and jumped over that 50k milestone huh
> 
>  
> 
> uh yeah. 
> 
> so i actually have my thesis due in a little over a month so if u dont hear from me until end of may..... that is why. i'm over at @candidroger on tumblr most days though, because im a disaster.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday, johnny d

Back before his dad had died, they’d lived in a semi-detached. It had been a tiny house; two bedrooms with tight corners, a too steep staircase that he and his sister had tumbled down on a regular basis in their younger years. It had been converted not long before they’d moved in, a hop skip and a jump from the one bedroom flat they’d shared before then, before his mum had grown round and wide while still, somehow, too thin as she’d pressed his hands to her belly and asked him to say goodnight to his little sister every night.

All in all, if pressed, he’d say his childhood had been a happy one. He had been loved, and encouraged, and fed. But the house had been small and his dad had worked long shifts to support the two children he couldn’t afford, the wife he resented for having given them to him; the house had been small, the walls thin, and the hushed arguments were never quite as hushed as they were intended to be.

The problem with children was that they were all too smart for their own good.

Back before his dad had died, they’d lived in a semi-detached. It had been a tiny house; two bedrooms with tight corners, a too steep staircase that he and his sister had tumbled down on a regular basis in their younger years. Before his dad had died, harried whispers had reverberated through the thin wall at the head of his bed, a set of bunk beds that his dad had carried into the house in bits and pieces, a glue gun he’d borrowed from their new neighbour clutched in his hand as he’d promised that, no, truly, this was a brand new bed, Johnny.

Harried whispers that spoke of stress and the sad determination to make the best of it that had had John, years later, marching with Roger at a reproductive rights protest in the city because _fuck that_.

(“No one should have to have kids they don’t want, and no kid should have to feel guilty for being born,” John had grumbled at Roger, flagging the bartender over for another round. A march was a march was a bloody long trek that demanded a pint or two in the aftermath.

Roger had watched him hand over change with a tilt to his eyes that spoke of an understanding and had him shying away for the horrible feeling of being seen and understood in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

“That’s what the march is for, mate,” Roger said, expression smoothing out into cheerfulness as his pint was set down in front of him. It was something John appreciated from Roger, that he seemed to instinctively know when to back off and did so without fail. Well, unless Brian or copious amounts of alcohol was involved — then all bets were off. He guessed it was most likely a sensitivity borne of the kind of popularity that he himself had never enjoyed; some kind of empathetic hyper-awareness that let Roger read the people around him like books. “Speaking of,” Roger continued, lips sly behind the rim of his glass. “There's a bird with a sick sign who’s been checking you out for a good couple of minutes so I’m gonna go chat up… someone.”

“What?” John said, bewildered, as Roger elbowed his way through the crowd. Roger waved his pint at him over his shoulder, somehow managing not to spill any on the gaggle of not-nuns wearing strap-on’s.

“Remember to use contraception!” Roger had called back, sending a cheer through the pub.)

All in all, if pressed, he’d say his childhood had been a happy one. He had been loved, and encouraged, and fed. But below the love and encouragement ran an undercurrent that sounded like exhausted arguments about money, about time, about how neither his mum or dad had asked for this to be their life. Arguments that settled into the well worn groove that was knowing neither of them would ever walk away, not when John and Julie were lying in secondhand bunk beds one room over desperately pretending to be asleep. Arguments that were rehashed night after night because they loved their kids, but they hadn’t wanted them, couldn’t afford them.

The arguments had stopped once he had died, of course, and once he’d died they’d been able to buy a house with thicker walls; a house with three bedrooms, thicker walls, and paid for almost entirely with the money they’d gained from his dad dying a premature death that the coroner had put down to chronic stress.

There was still guilt that lingered, even now eight years later, when he thought about his dad and about how much easier life had gotten once he’d passed and the life insurance cheque had come through; a guilt that lingered when he thought about his dad and about the ‘what-if’s’ of him not having been born.

They wouldn’t have married, he knew that.

If they hadn’t married, would his dad have had a happier life before he’d died? If they hadn’t married, would his dad have taken the time on his day off to go to the doctor?

Even though his mum swore that he and Julie were the best things to ever happen to them, no matter the hardships, he couldn’t help but think that his dad might not have agreed. He couldn’t imagine that his dad would have rated Julie and himself — and the stolen days, hours, and minutes he’d gotten to spend with them in amongst the overtime hours and odd jobs on the side that had eaten up the last decade of his life — all that highly when his heart gave in on him as he poured over soulless data at the same company that had then begrudgingly paid out his life insurance three months later.

There was a guilt that came from hearing the people who loved you whisper harshly into the night through too-thin walls over the pain and anxiety that you brought to their lives.

(Roger’s eyes met his from across the room, illuminated by the streetlight outside.

The words from Brian and Freddie were indistinguishable, but the tone wasn’t. John tried for a smile, something reassuring, and felt all too much like he was sat on the bottom bunk again, reciting all of those fairytales in which overdue rent didn’t exist.

Roger let out a sigh and rolled over.)

 

* * *

 

 

John watched bemusedly as Freddie dug around the cupboard, arse wiggling about in the air as he pushed himself half inside the bloody thing in his quest for tupperware containers. The kitchen floor was littered with them, none with lids. They weren’t, of course, actually branded Tupperware. They were all students, not middle class housewives. No, they were the generic sort that you could buy at the pound store in packs of twenty — the kind that promised to be dishwasher safe but warped if you so much as looked at the hot tap in their presence and left any food you heated in them tasting somewhat of plastic.

John had found himself contemplating his own mortality as he’d made his way through his veggie chilli in the break room at work just the other day, wondering whether or not the kale Brian had added would balance out the BPA he was clearly digesting in large quantities.

“Aha!” Freddie’s voice echoed out. There was some more undignified wiggling as he made his way back out of the cupboard, a clutch of lids held against his chest as he grinned at John triumphantly. “I knew we had to have more lids than that,” he nodded over to the dishrack where the four lids that he and Brian used in rotation sat drying.

“Yes,” said John, leaning against the fridge and out of range of the tupperware projectiles which had previously been flying left and right. “Why don’t you see if any of them fit.”

“I—” Freddie looked down at his collection uncertainly. “I’m sure some of them must fit, darling. Why would we keep them all if not?”

“None of them do,” said John. He knew, he had been the one to stash the useless lids toward the back of the cupboard after spending a good half an hour back in December frustratedly working his way through the lot of them to find a matching set. “And I don’t know, they’re not mine.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” Freddie huffed, letting them fall to the floor to join their mismatched brethren with a clatter. “We live in London, that space could be used for something useful!”

John looked at the cupboard.

“Like what?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Freddie sighed, nudging a purple container with his foot. “I hear in Japan they have flats the size of coffins, if rent gets a bit dire we could sub-let.”

“Sure,” John said with a snort. “Sounds like a plan.”

“Or,” said Freddie thoughtfully, tapping at the cupboard door. “There’s always the hedgehog…”

John decided not to deign that with a response.

The hedgehog had become a bone of contention for the past couple of weeks, between Freddie and Brian anyway. From what he could gather, Brian had caught Freddie having a smoke out on the balcony next to the cage and sternly instituted a ‘no smoking around the helpless animals’ policy.

(“You are such a hypocrite!” Freddie hissed as Brian snatched the cigarette from his mouth and chucked it over the balcony edge. John, who had finished his prior to Brian finding them, did his best to look innocent of all charges. “If I’d have let you—”

“Luckily I don’t have to live with that on my conscience,” Brian said, turning to check the hedgehog’s water level. “Thank you ever so much, Freddie.”

“Fuck you,” Freddie sulked, surreptitiously waving his hands as if to encourage the smoke heavy air towards Brian and the cage. “Roger’s going to throw a fit, you know.”)

Roger had taken the new restriction to his ability to smoke in the flat with remarkably little complaint other than the odd grumble as he hung out of their bedroom window on his arse for his bedtime fag. But then, Roger hadn’t been in the flat all that much over the past fortnight. The complaints would probably come in thick and fast when he spent some time at home doing anything other than sleeping.

“Where’s Rog?” he asked, slipping his phone out of his pocket and into his hand as it vibrated. A message from Veronica blowing him off again. He frowned down at it. It was really bloody hard to apologise and explain when your girlfriend was avoiding you, and after two weeks he was getting more than a little bit tired of it. He knew he’d fucked up, could even accept that maybe he’d fucked up enough to warrant being dumped on his arse. They’d only been together just over a month and he’d been a right dick for seemingly no reason. He could handle being dumped, but the game they were currently playing where they made plans and then she blew him off at the last moment was just frustrating.

He liked Veronica, really liked her. But he was sort of getting the feeling that he was being laughed at right now, and he didn’t like that at all.

“Catching up with people,” Freddie said absently with a wave of his hand, stacking the four complete storage containers they owned on the counter and determinedly ignoring the mismatched ones on the floor. “He’s been at home so much lately, his adoring fans have been missing him.”

“Hmm,” said John, eyeing Freddie’s back for a moment before returning his gaze to his phone.

 _We need to talk_ , he typed. _Tomorrow @ mine? I can do before 12_

 

He hit send before he could think any better of it, and shoved his phone back into his pocket. Freddie was humming as he stacked some of their larger bowls next to the tupperware on the bench, seemingly carefree. It was nice to see, the past near two months having seen him buzzing about the flat a taut wire of tension and stress.

“No, really,” Freddie insisted with a laugh, turning to wave their salad bowl at him. John hadn’t even known they owned a salad bowl, although now that he was looking at it he had the oddest impression that it had been him who had bought it. “You wouldn’t believe how many messages I got.”

John could, actually. He’d received a few himself. Most of them had been from people he’d never so much as met before, though a quick scroll through their Instagram’s had inevitably brought up a picture of Roger looking unfairly pretty on a jungle gym; Roger flipping off the camera with what looked like a broken nose in an A&E Roger smacking an over the top kiss to the cheek of a grinning man in graduation regalia; Roger at an NSPCC fundraiser in a Cinderella dress accompanied by a grinning Freddie dressed as a (quite inappropriate) slutty pumpkin.

He’d had no idea what to reply. _Hi, yes, Roger is still in London, he’s just having a mild mental breakdown that I’m not supposed to know about. I’ll pass on the info about the rave, yes, don’t worry, I assumed I wasn’t invited_? He’d left a lot of people on read.

“You’d think,” Freddie continued. “That we’d been harbouring Prince William, not Roger,” his collection of food receptacles apparently satisfactory he turned to face John fully again. “William back when he was young and attractive, of course. Not William now.”

“You think no one would notice if we harboured him now?” John asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

“We could replace the man with a potato,” Freddie said with a sigh, shaking his head sadly. “It would probably have more personality.”

The front door slammed shut.

“A potato?” John prodded, a smile lurking around the corners of his mouth even as he tried not to. “Any particular kind? King Edward? Vivaldi? Russett?”

“What?” said Freddie, brow furrowed. “No, darling. A _potato_.”

“Yeah, I got that, Fre—”

“Prince William?” Roger interrupted from the doorway, a grin bright and beautiful on his face. He peered around John at the mess on the floor, tugging his shades low for a quick moment before returning them to their place on his nose.

“How did you know we were—” John stopped himself this time and shook his head. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know.”

“I spent _years_ fantasising about that man, Deaky!” Freddie cried dramatically, arms flung wide and endangering his collection of bowls and tupperware. “Years! Wasted!”

“On Mr. Potato Head,” Roger said sagely, nodding his head.

“I could handle him being straight,” said Freddie, looking genuinely distraught. “But—”

“He cried watching the wedding,” Roger interrupted again, shooting John a smirk as he did so. “Kash showed me the pictures.”

“You’ve absolutely no proof that that was why I was crying,” Freddie shot back with a sniff and a shake of his head. “Anyway—”

“You can see the broadcast on the telly in the background, Freds,” Roger continued unabated, leaning casually against the doorframe. “Ma Jer got them printed and your dad dated them.”

“You cried?” John said, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“How was your day?” Freddie threw out at Roger desperately.

“Oh my god, you cried,” John said faintly.

Roger paused, clearly weighing up whether or not to allow Freddie to change the topic, “Good. Caught up with Dom.” He shuffled over, prodding John away from the fridge so he could peer inside.

“Dom?” Freddie asked, straightening up from his defeated slump. “As in, Dom-Dom? Dom the friends with benefits who went up the banana tree and didn’t come back down?”

Roger hesitated, fingers trailing between the water and orange juice before pulling out the orange juice and taking a large swig straight from the bottle.

“She’s not crazy, Freddie,” he said, wiping at his bottom lip with his thumb. “Shit,” he muttered, mostly to himself. “That’s good,” he took another long drink.

John watched bemusedly as he basically chugged his way through half of the bottle in one go. Brian was going to be pissed in the morning.

“Sorry,” Roger said, dragging in a ragged breath and shoving the bottle in John’s direction. “Did you want some?”

John shot a look at Freddie who seemed to be stuck on the ‘Dom’ revelation, whoever she was, and not Roger’s weird orange juice based behaviour, “Uh, I’m good thanks, Rog.”

“Your loss, mate,” Roger shrugged, drawing the OJ back to himself.

“Dom?” Freddie repeated faintly, brow furrowed ever so slightly. “Rog, she was one screw short of a flatpack.”

“No, she wasn’t,” Roger said, bristling next to him like Cleo when someone dared to pet her belly.

“She was bloody insane,” Freddie told John, eyes wide as saucers and ever so slightly fond. “I liked her, we got on like a house on fire, but she was half a box of crayons short of a full rainbo—”

“She fucking wasn’t!” Roger shouted, OJ clutched tightly in one hand as he stood stiffly. Freddie flinched backwards at the unexpected volume sending the tupperware clattering across the countertop.

John found himself straightening up purposefully. The slow unfolding of his signature slouch that tended to happen on nights out that got a bit too rowdy, standing that bit taller next to Freddie in a silent challenge to, go on, say it again. Not that they often had much of a chance — nine times out of ten Roger tended to barrel out of nowhere, fists flying.

Freddie was something of a lightning rod for bigots. Bigots, John was learning, were a fluid bunch in the right circumstances. One of the blokes from Brian’s class had been seemingly fine with Brian’s sexuality for the two years they’d known one another, but upon being faced with Freddie had drunkenly devolved into first racial slurs and then out and out homophobia that had John ardently grateful that Roger hadn’t been there.

(“God,” Brian had said, cheeks flushed with some kind of shame-filled anger. “I’m so sorry, Freddie. Honestly, he’s never…” he trailed off. There was no good way to admit to having been unaware of your privilege, to having been unaware of the way in which your whiteness protected you from so much.

“I’m brown and I’m flamboyant, sweetheart,” Freddie dismissed with a wave to the bartender to bring over another round. “I pegged him the moment I set my eyes on him, you shouldn’t fret over it. Both of you were here, I wasn’t worried.”)

Just last week they’d had to leverage a tagged Instagram post to get all four of them out of being barred from the pub down from Imperial after Brian had been forced to wade into the mix to drag Roger off of some racist arsehole by his collar. He’d looked like an angry kitten being picked up by its mother, all spitting fury and bared teeth.

John tried not to remember, early in the morning or late at night as Roger waved his phone in his face to take yet another unflattering boomerang to stick on his story, just how impressed the bartender had been by Roger’s follower count.

“Okay, darling,” Freddie said with a huff, tension dissipating from his frame as quickly as it had arrived as he rolled his eyes theatrically. “Whatever you say, but don’t you go blaming me when she starts practically stalking you again!”

“She stalked you?” John asked, Freddie’s lack of reaction to Roger’s sudden bout of aggression letting him, in turn, relax. In all honesty, however, it was rather the nature of Roger and Freddie’s relationship that they viewed each other as completely harmless regardless of any evidence to the contrary.

Roger had once recalled a time Freddie had frightened off a thug using a broken bottle with a fond smile on his face and a small shake of his head reminiscent of when parents of small children encouraged their spawn to perform their latest dance recital for visitors. The ‘isn’t he just _adorable_ ’ was silent but very much implied.

“She didn’t fucking stalk me,” Roger spat, hands clenching spasmodically around the neck of the OJ. Freddie had now turned around to stack the tupperware again. “I ghosted her like a dickhead and she’s a good bloody person who wanted to make sure I was alright.”

“She showed up at our door at 3am, drunk, begging to see you,” Freddie said nonchalantly, sighing as he scratched at a dried splodge of food stuck on the inside of one of the containers which had caught his attention. “Deaky, babe, can we please try to clean the tupperware properly?”

“Freddie,” John said patiently. “When was the last time you did the dishes?”

“Well,” Freddie hummed, abandoning the dirty dish as a lost cause when his fingernail failed to lift the stain and merely adding it back to his pile of clean containers. “I washed a mug out a couple of weeks back.”

“No, you threw the contents of the mug over Roger,” John shot back, leaning back against the fridge and tapping his heel against the door. “That’s not washing up, that’s just pissing Brian off by making his mattress mouldy.”

“Two birds, one stone. Roger got a shower, and the cup got emptied before it started growing spores,” Freddie insisted, shooting him a wink over his shoulder. “I’m a genius.”

“You’re someone who never does the bloody dishes is what you are.”

Roger was looking between the two of them, eyes wide behind his shades, “Sorry, can we table the dishwashing conversation for a moment and go back to Dom?”

“Right, sorry,” John said, gesturing at him. “I got distracted from the argument you’re trying to start.”

“Oh,” Freddie exclaimed, turning back around to face them. “Are we having an argument? You should have told me, Rog. I’m not really in the mood for it, but I’m sure I can whip up a few zingers.”

“You’re so fucking frustrating,” Roger said, jabbing the OJ at him accusingly. “I treated Dom like shit! And you just excuse it because it’s me. Everything I do is excusable to you, when it shouldn’t be! I could fucking murder someone and you’d be in the papers telling them it wasn’t my fucking fault.”

“What the fuck are you going on about?” Freddie asked, looking incredibly confused as Roger whirled back around to look at John who tried to school his expression into something neutral.

“John agrees with me!” Roger declared with the kind of confidence John himself usually referred for things such as _it’s raining_ or _the traffic’s awful today_.

John did, sort of, agree.

“I’m not getting involved,” he said, holding his hands up. “I’ve got no snails in this race.”

“You’ve got no sna—?” Freddie repeated, squinting at him before shaking his head. “No, never mind, we’ll discuss your weird snail shit later, baby.”

“We don’t have to,” John interjected hurriedly.

“No, no,” Freddie said determinedly. “We will. But first: I would probably draw the line at murder, Rog.”

John tried to keep his face neutral as a very realistic picture of Freddie visiting Roger in prison, weeping down the telephone they showed in American procedural shows as he pressed a hand against the glass separating them and promised to wait for him. Looking at the two of them squaring off across the kitchen table was… somewhat uncanny.

“I treated Dom like shit, Freddie,” Roger repeated, his voice smaller now. “I treated her like shit and you blamed her!”

“I’m your fucking friend,” Freddie hissed back, getting worked up as Roger calmed down. “It’s what we do.”

“You should have been honest, you shouldn’t have let me—”

“I didn’t let you do _anything_ ,” Freddie said, slapping a hand down on the table and leaning forward. “You’re the one who fucked off out of her life with not so much as a _toodles_. You’re the one who said you didn’t want to ever see her again without ever explaining why. You’re the one who begged Brian and I to get her off of the doorstep and tell her not to come back, and you’re the one who knew the whole while you were being a cunt. I didn’t have to _let you_ do any of that, you did it all by yourself.”

Roger flinched backwards, face slack with surprise. John could relate.

It was so strange after months of soft steps and creaking eggshells to see Freddie snap back. John had grown used to the dynamics that had been in play while Roger had been…. Unwell? Not himself? Vulnerable? He had grown used to it. The past couple of weeks had been a hell of an adjustment, learning how everyone fit together when things were ‘normal’. The problem was, really, that John’s normal was the abnormality that Brian and Freddie had spent months telling him to wait out. John had known Roger only a couple of months before his depressive slump that had stretched out across November and through to February. What Brian and Freddie had been yearning for the end of was what John had learned his place within the band, the flat, the friendship through. Now that it had ended, had passed in the night like a hurricane chasing ships to the desolate sea floor, John had been left scrambling to figure out how to be a part of a dynamic he could only barely remember.

“You don’t get to blame me for supporting you. I’m your friend, it’s what I’m meant to do,” Freddie finished, clearing his throat and leaning back again. He tossed his hair gracefully, “You told us she was crazy, we accepted that. If you lied, that’s on you, moonpie.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Roger sighed, slumping in on himself. “I’m, like… on edge. Wasn’t easy seeing her again, y’know?” he asked rhetorically, looking tired. “I’m being a cunt. Sorry.”

“That is the general consensus we’ve reached, dear, yes,” Freddie said brightly, turning back to his tupperware. He grabbed them and turned back to the table, dumping them across in a sprawl. “Pick your containers wisely, now, Mama said she might make dhansak when I spoke to her the other day and I know how you love it.”

The problem with Roger and Freddie’s fights was that they tended to come out of nowhere and then dissipate just as quickly. Much like a summer storm, bystanders were left soaked to the bone while the lightened clouds went on their merry way in the soft breeze with nary a care. They were the only two people on the entire planet who seemed to know exactly how to handle one another.

“You’re actually going to dinner, then?” John asked Roger, surprised.

“Of course, Deaks,” Freddie said, looking over at him as if he had sprouted a second head. “It’s the second Thursday of the month; we always go on the second and the last. It’s tradition.”

John darted a look over Roger who, in the middle of putting the empty bottle of OJ in the recycling bin, rolled his eyes behind his shades at Freddie’s blatant refusal to acknowledge the fact that Roger hadn’t attended for two months now.

“Of course,” he murmured, bobbing his head. “Silly me.”

Roger closed the bin lid heavily and shot him a look over the rim of his sunglasses. John shrugged awkwardly as silence fell heavily over the room — at the end of the day, however annoyed he got over Freddie and Brian’s chosen tactics for dealing with Roger’s issues, the root of the problem seemed to lie in Roger’s own refusal to own up to them.

The past two weeks had been characterised by awkwardness.

Roger had just… snapped out of it. The morning after Brian and Freddie’s argument, Roger had bound out of bed and been himself again. He’d gone off to the shops (“You’re welcome,” he’d groused playfully, slapping a fresh bottle of milk onto the kitchen counter as Brian blinked at him owlishly. “I went all the way to the Lidl to grab milk. I’m a fucking saint.”), hung out with them all day, and gone out for the night with the lot of them. The first couple of days had been tense, all three of them waiting for the other shoe to drop but it… hadn’t. As if by magic, Roger had come back to himself.

Unexpectedly, Freddie had relaxed first. As soon as Roger had agreed to attend the next family dinner with a sheepish grin, wrestling the phone from Freddie’s hand to chat to his mother himself. Brian had followed suit, shrugging at him from across the room with his head in Roger’s lap as he played with his hair. And John—

John didn’t _understand_. He didn’t understand how the past two months of Roger struggling could be so easily swept under the rug as if it had never happened just because he seemed okay again. It wasn’t normal for someone to become so depressed that they couldn’t leave the house most days. It wasn’t normal for someone to stumble out of their home for days at a time only to come back drunk, high, or bleeding. None of it was normal and he couldn’t understand how they could treat it like it was.

Part of him was frustrated at Roger for getting better because it let Freddie and Brian fall right back into the habits they were comfortable in. Into pretending like it _was_ normal and fine for someone they knew to fall into some kind of fucked up depressive spiral for weeks at a time once a year. And that it was once a year, because John wasn’t fucking convinced. Yeah, maybe Roger got his worst over the holiday period. Maybe that was true, but there was no bloody way he was somehow mentally healthy the rest of the year. John wasn’t an expert, but he was pretty fucking sure that wasn’t the way it worked.

You didn’t try and kill yourself and just get better, no matter how good a friend you had gluing you back together. You didn’t spend weeks engaging in self destructive behaviours and then just get better, no matter how much your friends needed you to.

Part of him was frustrated at Roger for getting better because it let Freddie and Brian fall right back into the habits they were comfortable in. But a larger part of him was terrified that Roger wasn’t any better at all and that he was the only one watching out for him anymore.

Which was ridiculous, he knew it was ridiculous.

If Freddie was a compass, Roger was due North. Freddie knew Roger better than anyone else, knew the ins and outs of Roger in a way that sometimes made John feel lonely just watching them interact. And Brian— God only knew what the hell was going on there, but he cared. Cared enough that he’d pulled his head out of his arse at least, even if it did rather seem like he’d shoved it back up there again.

But then, he was starting to think maybe he’d been a bit harsh on Brian, these past weeks. Because now he was starting to understand just how fucking difficult it was to get past Freddie when he was stonewalling. He’d thought that had been what was going on before, but it hadn’t. No, before Freddie had been so concerned about Roger that he’d allowed the both of them to see whatever the hell it was they had been seeing. Glimpses of suffering that couldn’t be patched up fast enough. But now? Now that Freddie didn’t have to worry over Roger quite so much? Now his guard was up completely, any mention of what had been happening over the past few months was swept under the rug — a rug that John felt had been pulled out from under his feet, leaving him unsteady and unsure just what was going on and how he was supposed to respond to it as dynamics shifted faster than he could follow.

“Should just bring them all,” Roger said after a moment, gesturing at the table. “Not the ones on the floor though.”

“Obviously, Roger. Those ones don’t have lids,” Freddie informed him, the awkwardness sidestepped and abandoned as he toed at one of the containers closest to his foot.

“What, none of them?” Roger asked, looking at the multitude sprawled across the kitchen floor. It looked a bit like a toddler had been let loose in Ikea except, of course, none of their plasticware had cost nearly as much as the shit from Ikea.

“God, when was the last time you even entered our kitchen, Roger?” Freddie said with exaggerated disdain and a shake of his head.

Roger just looked at him for a long moment.

“Get bent,” Freddie said at length when the silence became too much for him to bear. With a sniff he, finally, bent down to collect his discarded topless containers.

“I have, mate. Jim still not putting out?” Roger shot back with an exaggerated frown, lifting his sunglasses just enough to wipe away a fake tear.

Freddie flipped him off.

John snickered softly as Roger sent him a smug smirk.

“You off out with Veronica tonight?” Roger asked. He slumped next to John against the fridge so that their shoulders rubbed together, rubbing at his nose with the back of his sleeve and making a snuffling noise.

John shrugged, sending a fridge magnet in the shape of a cock wearing a beret skittering to the floor. He may have told a white lie or two to cover for Ronnie’s last minute cancellations — he’d spent most of Sunday evening sat at Mickey D’s having a staring match with a toddler at the opposing table who had been slowly but surely stuffing her fries down the side of her highchair.

Roger kicked the magnet over towards Freddie, “Since you’re down there, love.”

“Suck,” said Freddie slowly, chucking the magnet with incredible accuracy at Roger’s mouth. “My dick.”

“Motherfucker!” Roger yelped, scooping the magnet up as it fell and lobbing it right back at him.

The magnet bounced violently off of the cabinet where Freddie’s head had been before he’d ducked. Freddie whipped around and snatched the magnet from the floor where it had landed, cradling it in his hands as if it were a baby bird with a soft gasp.

“You could have broken Billy!” he said accusingly, sat back on his heels and glaring up at Roger from beneath his fringe.

“Billy?” John said softly, mostly to himself. Roger looked at him and went to say something. John hurriedly cut him off, “Oh, no. No, I do not want to know.”

“Well, we were drunk you see—” began Freddie, beret adorned magnetic cock still in hand.

“Why do all of your stories start that way?” asked John, resigned to knowing much more than he needed to. Again.

“In some of them we’re high,” said Roger interjected _sotto voce_.

“That’s true,” agreed Freddie, nodding towards Roger. “Sometimes we’re high. But this time we were drunk!”

“We did smoke a bit of—”

“Oh, that doesn’t count!”

“I hate you both so much,” said John, head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling and prayed for strength. It took a lot for him to miss the days in which Roger wouldn’t leave his bed, but right now he was sort of seeing the benefits of the previous state of affairs.

Or that’s what he tried to tell himself, anyway, as he determinedly ignored the small smile that was trying to tug its way onto his face against his will.

“We were drunk—”

“So you’ve said,” John sighed.

“ _We were drunk_ ,” Freddie repeated forcefully, stabbing the cock in John’s direction when he rolled his head down to look at him. “Just outside our hotel in Paris—”

“S’why it’s wearing a beret,” Roger said with a sniff and a wink that was really only discernible thanks to Roger’s habit of incorporating every facial muscle possible for the gesture.

“Obviously,” John said drily.

“How else would you know it was French, darling?” said Freddie, as if such a question was, indeed, obvious.

“I couldn’t begin to speculate, Fred,” John replied, beginning to feel an awful sense of kinship with the mother from McDonald’s when she had found the fries her daughter had squirreled away. Her face had taken on a sort of bone deep exhaustion which spoke of many months of weary endurance behind her and the awful knowledge that she had many more years ahead of her.

“I suppose he could be holding a baguette,” Freddie mused, turning the magnet over in his hands. He had succeeded in putting only two containers back in the cabinet before he’d been distracted. “But then he’d have to be given hands. The beret works better because he’s already got a head, don’t you think?”

John shot a look at Roger whose entire face was now twisted with the effort to keep from laughing at him.

“Definitely,” replied John.

“Oh, forget it,” Freddie grumbled, shuffling until he fell fully backwards onto his arse. He crossed his legs as his face took on a pinched look, “You clearly aren’t at all interested in the story—”

“No, Freddie,” John interrupted. It was not a hurried interruption, nor a particularly impassioned one. It was, in fact, that exact tone of voice he usually reserved for telling charity collectors that he _wasn’t interested, thanks_ as he passed by. “Please continue.”

John had made the mistake of telling Freddie he wasn’t interested in one of his stories exactly once. He’d been in the midst of studying for a test and the story in question had involved not one, not two, but _three_ people he had never met before. He hadn’t even actually told Freddie he wasn’t interested but rather merely asked if he could tell him about it later.

Freddie hadn’t spoken to him for two days and then John had gotten a cold. He had no way to prove that the cold was Freddie’s fault but he’d looked suspiciously smug as he’d handed him a packet of cough drops over lunch before launching, utterly unprompted, into the story anew.

“If you insist, Deaky, of course!” Freddie beamed. “We were drunk—”

Roger groaned.

“And we were in _Paris_ ,” Freddie continued, shooting Roger a glare. “Stood just outside of our hotel, darling. Such a charming little place! You’d love it, we really should take you there.”

“It was a shithole, Freddie,” Roger said blandly, despite the fond smile that had begun curling at the corners of his lips at Freddie’s grandiose story spinning. “I’m not sure it even had a name, and it’s almost definitely been shut down by now.”

“Oh,” Freddie hummed. “I do hope not, we did have fun there.”

“You two,” John interjected. “Could have fun in an abandoned alleyway.”

Freddie and Roger looked across at one another for a long moment.

“Well, sweetheart,” Freddie said delicately, at length. “You’re certainly not wrong there.”

John sighed, “I walked right into that one, but you didn’t have to trip me with it.”

“I’ll refrain from making the obvious jape about you on your knees, darling,” Freddie sniffed, shaking his fringe from his eyes. “Regardless,” he continued. “We were drunk—”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Roger interrupted exasperatedly, reaching up to take off his shades so he could rub at the bridge of his nose. He shoved his shades back on and crossed his arms, “We were in Paris and a guy selling magnets shoved that in our face and asked if it was true we called dick’s ‘William’s’ in England, we said _eh kind of_ and then Freddie demonstrated how to deepthroat on it so he gave it to us for free. It was named Billy in commemoration because Freddie thought Willy would be too gauche.”

“What,” John said flatly.

“You take all the fun out of everything, Roger Meddows Taylor,” Freddie huffed, returning to shoving tupperware back into the cupboard. “No pizzaz at all. This is why they wouldn’t accept you at the library as a storytime teller, you know.”

“They wouldn’t accept me,” Roger said slowly. “Because I never applied.”

Freddie slammed the cupboard door shut with a bang. The next time he opened it, John knew, he would be greeted by an avalanche of lidless tubs.

“But you’d be so good at it! You love kids!”

“You just said I’d be shit!”

“That was reverse psychology and you’re smart enough to know that!”

“Sorry,” John interrupted as Roger went to retort, Freddie making his way back onto his feet. “But how the fuck did you end up with it in your mouth, Freddie?”

“What?” said Freddie, blinking owlishly at him through his fringe as he looked away from Roger.

“The magnet,” John said. Freddie just looked at him.

John sighed: “Billy.”

Freddie merely shrugged.

“It’s vaguely cock shaped and it was waved in his face,” Roger said with a snort. “He can’t help himself.”

Even after months of exposure to their friendship and the kind of crass offensiveness that passed between them as innocent banter — but from anyone else would be met with offers to take this conversation outside — John fought to keep himself from outwardly reacting. The peals of laughter that Freddie sent his way upon making eye contact again, however, proved his efforts to have been useless.

“You’ve scandalised him, Rog!” Freddie exclaimed, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear as he dabbed ineffectually at his under eyes with the pads of his ring fingers so as not to disturb his concealer. He tended to put on more makeup for his family dinners than for anything else; Roger, on the other hand, had once stumbled into the flat in little more than a ripped pair of jeans to pick Fred up and then returned wearing one of Kash’s football jerseys. “Oh, Deaky, I thought we’d trained you out of that by now!”

“What can I say?” John said with a sigh. “You two always manage to surprise and amaze.”

Roger rolled his head in his direction and raised an eyebrow at him over his shades.

“Darling,” Freddie drawled, lounging across the dining table decadently and flinging out an arm in John’s direction. “But of _cou—_ Oh, fuck, _”_ the tupperware, plus salad bowl, that he had left on the table went flying to the floor.

John toed at one of the lids that had landed by his foot absently.

“Oi,” said Roger with a nudge that toppled him off of the fridge and into the wall. “Don’t get it dirty, we’ll have to wash it now.”

John shot him a withering look, “You’ll be washing it then, will you, Rog?”

Roger considered this for a moment.

“Well, you know what they say, Deaks,” he bent down to grab the lid, scuffing it on his jeans as he stood back up. “Five minute rule.”

“Think it’s five seconds actually, Rog,” John replied drolly, hands coming up to catch the lid as Roger lobbed it at him.

“Poor Ronnie,” Roger said with a sly smirk.

“Fuck you,” John hissed, darting a glance over at Freddie who had shot up from the floor like a jack-in-the-box, complete with over-eager smile.

“ _What?_ ” he breathed, tupperware clutched to his chest comically as he looked between them. Freddie had a pretty much non existent gayday, ranking just above Brian, that relied almost solely on hairstyle and opinion on disco but an _impeccable_ radar for gossip.

“Nothing,” John said hurriedly, shaking his head so fast the room went dizzy. “Just Roger trying to be funny. And _failing_.”

Roger looked at him for a long moment.

“Roger,” Freddie said softly, his eyes full of wonder and whimsy at the possibility of a tidbit of embarrassing gossip about one of his friends that he was, as of yet, unaware of. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, a wide grin had overtaken his face as he waited impatiently for Roger to drop the latest drama in his lap.

John groaned, closing his eyes, and let his head fall back against the doorframe with a thunk.

“It was a joke, Fred,” Roger said finally. John straightened up, looking over at him incredulously. “What, you think I hang around and watch Deaks get it on with his girlfriend?”

(As a rule: no, Roger did not hang around and watch John get it on with his girlfriend. But for every rule there was an exception.

The exception had occurred approximately three weeks ago when John and Veronica had stumbled, blind drunk, into the bedroom and made a good attempt at wall sex against the bedroom door. They’d ended up on the floor all of about two foot away from Roger’s bed a little over a minute later without, it’s important to note, realising that Roger’s bed was occupied.

“It’s okay,” Roger had assured John in the morning with a wan attempt at a smile as Veronica hurriedly slipped out of the front door muttering apologies as she went. “I would have left but I, y’know, couldn’t without standing on you.”

“Oh my god,” John had moaned, covering his face with his hands. “I am _so_ sorry.”

“It’s really not a problem,” Roger said, face peering out of the blanket burrito he had metamorphosed into several days before. “It’s not like you were… uh, going very long.”

“ _Oh my god_ ,” John repeated, desperately trying to disappear into the carpet. “Do you think she remembers that?”

Roger stayed silent.

John peeked through his fingers at him.

“It happens to the best of us?” Roger had tried, an unconvincing shrug merely compounding the feeble nature of his attempt at reassurance.

“Right,” said John, letting his hands fall to his side. “I’m going to go drown myself in the shower.”

“Mood.”)

Freddie squinted over at Roger, “You’re a liar, Taylor.”

“And you’re a gossipy bitch, Mercury,” Roger shot back with a lazy grin.

“True, darling. Too true,” Freddie trilled with a laugh, letting the topic float away from him as he set his containers back on the table carefully once more.

John looked between the two of them, tentative surprise still weighing upon his face at Roger’s restraint. It wasn’t so much that he was surprised Roger hadn’t spilled the beans to Fredie, it was— No. That was exactly it. Freddie and Roger were so entwined with one another that the idea of one of them purposefully keeping something from the other, no matter how small, was genuinely disconcerting. If, as the Greeks had believed, mankind had been cut in half by the king of the Gods and cursed to wander the world in search of their match, Freddie and Roger clung to one another in direct contradiction to the edicts of the divine.

In all honesty John was surprised that Roger had apparently decided that John’s potential embarrassment was more important than the enjoyment Freddie would deride from it. He wasn’t sure if the fucked up dynamics of the past few months had impacted on the way he conceived of their relationship; the codependency that left both he and Brian on the outside looking in, grasping at fraying threads as if they could keep the tapestry from unravelling with clumsy fingers and good intentions. But then, the danger of Freddie and Roger’s particular brand of dysfunction was that is made it difficult for others — not just themselves — to draw lines delineating where one began and ended.

It hadn’t been like this when he had first moved in, he knew. He could remember, just barely, through the haze of stress and anxiety which had hung with deathly pallor over the apartment since late November and which was only now beginning to dissipate. It was being chased away piece by piece with each cheery smile that Freddie greeted the morning with, the gas bill ticking its way down as Brian returned to guarding the thermostat with an intensity matched only by that with which Roger had taken to treating his great pre-Spring clean out of his wardrobe.

Roger, Brian had once explained, was something of a social chameleon. They’d been sat at the bar together watching Roger wingman Freddie with an ease that John wasn’t sure he could replicate in convincing someone that they wanted to sleep with _him_ let alone a friend of his.

(“Freddie’s too open, too honest,” Brian murmured into his pint, sending a tightlipped smile to the unimpressed looking bartender. “He gets even worse after a few drinks. I’m too closed off unless I’m shitfaced, by which point….” he trailed off with an awkward shrug. “Well, it’s fifty-fifty at that point whether the flag will go up the pole.”

“Right,” John said for lack of any other response, determinedly keeping his eyes locked away from Brian and the uncomfortable amount of information he was sharing about his dick. For someone supposedly closed off, he was being pretty fucking open. In a few months time, stood wide eyed and horrified in the shower as he scrubbed at his scalp, he tried to console himself with the memory of this conversation.

It didn’t work.

“Roger can read you like a book,” Brian continued with a limp wristed gesture over to where Freddie was being shown how to shoot pool by his chosen paramour, Roger now drinking with another group at a different pool table. “Roger can read _anyone_ like a book. Knows exactly when to back off, when to press on—”

“Really?” John interrupted as one of the women in the group Roger had joined threw her drink over him.

Brian sighed before draining the rest of his pint in one long swallow and unfolding himself from his bar stool. Over by the pool tables Roger laughed, head flung back as his hair dripped onto the tacky floor, and waved Freddie’s exclamations off with a wink before stepping backwards and away from the tables with his hands held up.

“It just makes it worse, that he knew that was coming. Come on.”)

It was something John had learned was true over time, but it was still easy to forget the ease with which Roger usually navigated the waters of social interaction, those nonverbal cues and interpersonal currents which informed not only their relationship with one another but also their relationship with actuality itself. It was easy to forget how effortlessly Roger could understand him and the way he interpreted the world when, for what seemed an age, Freddie had been speaking in Roger’s place. Freddie who was open and honest, who would have gutted himself three weeks ago if such an action would have made Roger smile. Freddie who would have most certainly shared John’s embarrassment with Roger for hope of a laugh, transferring the boundaries of his own trusting relationship with him onto John and thinking nothing of it.

“Deaks?”

John blinked, flinching back at Roger snapped his fingers in his face.

“Anyone home?”

“Get bent,” he scoffed, batting away Roger’s hand as he went to prod at his nose.

Roger cocked his hip and struck a comically seductive pose. Slipping his shades down his nose quickly, he trailed his eyes over John’s body before shooting him a wink: “Careful, Deaky. You might tempt me.”

Freddie laughed as John schooled his features into something he hoped resembled ‘unimpressed flatmate’ instead of ‘virginal schoolgirl being seduced by a sexually deviant demonic entity’.

“Not sure I’m your type, Rog,” he said, clearing his throat as he fought the urge to scooch backwards and away from the affected heaviness of Roger’s gaze.

Roger smirked, pushing his shades back up his nose as he leaned back against the fridge, “And what’s that?”

“Attracted to men,” John deadpanned, laughing softly as Roger gasped and clutched at his chest.

“Tall, dark, and handsome though,” Freddie hummed, watching Roger’s dramatics warmly. “You never know, Deaky. Blondie’s been many a man’s wild foray into the delights of cock…”

“Not tall enough, I don’t think,” John countered, relaxing back against the doorframe and slipping his hands into his pockets. He tried not to think about the fact that Veronica hadn’t replied yet, his phone sitting still underneath his palm.

“Stop slouching against the wall like you’re trying to sell me something…” Roger trailed off suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows ridiculously over the frames of his shades and lolling his head in John’s direction as Freddie laughed delightedly.

“Oh, of course you want it for free,” John snarked back, rolling his eyes. “I don’t come cheap, you know.”

“Of course not!” Freddie exclaimed, hair flying as he shook his head enthusiastically. “Darling, from the very moment I set eyes on you,” he continued, eyes gleaming. “I knew you were an…”

“Uptown gi-iirl,” Roger crooned, right in John’s ear.

“Fucking hell,” John yelped, leaping to the side and wiping at his ear.

“You know I can’t afford to buy her pearls,” Freddie joined in, dancing around the table to link arms with Roger who had popped the collar of the flannel, one which John was fairly sure had originally belonged to him, comically.

“But maybe one day when my ship comes _i-iiin_ ,” they crooned together, Freddie making an odd paddling motion with his free hand. “She’ll understand what kinda guy I’ve been, and then I’ll win!”

Freddie pulled away, falling dramatically against one of the chairs propped up against the table. Flinging a hand to his forehead he continued, “When she’s walking, she’s looking so fi- _iiine_ , and when she’s talking, she’ll say that she’s mi-iiiiine! She’ll say th—” A dishcloth hit him in the face and he cut off with a splutter.

“Hey!”

“He’d just have kept going,” Roger said to John in an aside. Freddie attempted to chuck the dishcloth back at him but it fluttered, in a sad sort of way, to the ground.

“Did you two…” John trailed off, unsure if he wanted to know the answer. No, he decided, the question would gnaw at him is he didn’t ask: “Did you two plan that somehow?”

“Yeah, Deaks,” Roger said drolly, face expressionless. “The whole conversation has been building up to this.”

John squinted at him.

“No, Jesus Christ,” Roger said with a snort, turning to the sink and grabbing a glass from it to pour himself a glass of tap water. John didn’t point out that it was dirty, there was no point. At this point he was actually sort of proud of Roger for halfheartedly rinsing the glass out first. Progress was progress. “I’ve better things to do than plot out how to serenade you, badly, with Billy Joel.”

“He doesn’t,” John said, pointing at Freddie.

Freddie looked offended for a moment before conceding with a nod, “The opportunity to sing Billy Joel is one that I would never, and have never, passed up and may have, once or twice, contrived.”

“Freddie didn’t plan it either,” Roger said confidently, sipping at his water with a grimace. “This tastes weird.”

“Didn’t I?” Freddie said, smirk firmly in place as he studied the kitchen ceiling.

“No,” said Roger firmly, frowning down at his glass.

Freddie’s smirk fell and he sighed, “Fine. No, it wasn’t planned.”

John remained unconvinced. He looked between them; Freddie was pouting and scuffing his boot against the linoleum flooring petulantly while Roger continued to inspect his glass suspiciously, swirling the water around. Roger looked up and caught his skeptical expression.

“Fred doesn’t have the patience for that sort of long con,” he said, making a face as he dumped the glass back in the sink. “That water was _rank_.”

“Oh,” said John, considering this. He looked over at Freddie who had gotten distracted by a split end. Pulling a pair of nail scissors from God only knew where, he began snipping at his hair haphazardly. “Fair enough.”

Roger pushed away from the sink and opened up the cupboard doors underneath it that contained their assorted, and limited, cleaning supplies to peer at the piping. After a long moment of looking at nothing in particular he asked, “Do you think there’s something wrong with the water supply?”

“No,” John said slowly, looking over at Freddie again just in time to catch him avert his eyes with a silent giggle. “I think you used a dirty glass.”

“Even if there is,” Freddie said snidely, still snipping away at his hair. “What are you going to do about it, Biology Boy? Draw a punnett square?”

Roger swung his arm back to flip Freddie the finger.

“Is that pipe supposed to be there?” he asked, sticking his head further under the sink.

“You’d probably be able to see better if you put on your _actual_ glasses on instead of your sunnies, dearest,” Freddie sing-songed, saccharine sweet.

“Yes, Roger,” John said at the same time. “That’s the drainage pipe. No water comes out of that.”

“Oh,” Roger said thoughtfully.

“You used,” John said slowly, as if explaining a difficult concept to an obstinate toddler. “A dirty glass.”

Roger straightened up, pulling his shirt down as he turned to face them once more and hip checking the cupboard doors shut once more. Leaning against them he rolled his eyes, only discernible thanks to him rolling his entire head with them, and grumbled, “It had water in it! How dirty could it be?”

“I dunno, Rog,” John sighed, leaning back up against the doorframe. “It’s not like someone else drank from it or anything.”

“So what?” Roger replied with a shrug. “I’ve swapped spit with Brian before, Freddie has literally thrown up in my mouth—”

“What.”

“God, I forgot about that!” Freddie laughed.

“I didn’t,” Roger said, shooting him a dark glance before continuing. “And you’re in a monogamous relationship with a Catholic. I think I’m safe.”

John, still stuck on the shared vomit scenario, looked between the two of them with a mixture of horror and disgusted interest as he attempted to figure out the mechanics of the situation. Presumably they had been kissing, but both Freddie and Roger had insisted that they had absolutely no sexual or romantic interest in one another (“The one true tragedy of my life,” Freddie had sighed wistfully, looking over at where Roger was sweet talking the bouncer of a club way out of their price range into letting the four of them in while Brian attempted to, in all his lanky glory, look inconspicuous by his side. “To love but not to hold, I fear.”).

He supposed that perhaps they had been kissing for some other reason? He, personally, had never snogged someone for the hell of it but he had heard people shrug it off as something that ‘just happened’ after a few drinks. But then he’d seen the two of them after more than a few drinks and nothing of the sort had ever happened, unless you counted the time that Freddie had attempted to plant a kiss on Roger’s cheek, overstepped the mark, and ended up on his knees while Roger laughed uproariously — but John didn’t. Maybe Freddie had been stood over Roger somehow and Roger’s mouth had been open? But, no, that seemed to circle back around to one of them on their knees and—

“It didn’t have water in it though, dear,” Freddie said disinterestedly, nail scissors disappearing into one of the pockets of his dress as if it were perfectly normal to keep small scissors on your person at all times. “I had my silver jewellery cleaning in that solution Baba gave me the other week. Worked a charm!”

“And you just let me drink from it?” Roger said disbelievingly, colour appearing on his cheeks.

“Oh my God,” said John, shoving his hand into his pocket to grab his phone.

_Yeah, sure. Everything ok?_

He stared at the reply from Ronnie for a moment before swiping past it and opening up Safari to google the poison control hotline number.

“Let’s be honest,” Freddie said, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. “Sweetheart, you’ve ingested far more dangerous chemicals than the traces of jewellery cleaner left in a glass that you rinsed before using.”

John considered this. He put his phone back in his pocket.

“There’s a difference,” Roger hissed, leaning forward. “Between me _knowingly_ ingesting something and me ingesting something _unknowingly_ , Fred. Do we have to have the Consent is Good talk again?”

“No,” interrupted John, who had been the victim of the Consent is Good talk the last time around. Yes, he was younger than the rest of them. Yes, he now lived in the big city and was dating someone new. No, no, he had not required the rather inventive and colourful literal puppet show that Roger, Freddie, _and_ Brian had put on for him. It had been a technicolour nightmare on multiple levels, though he did have to admit he would never be forgetting any of it.

“Do we?” Roger repeated threateningly when Freddie remained stubbornly quiet.

“No,” Freddie sighed, just as John’s palms began to sweat. He wasn’t convinced that the whole song and dance, which only comprised about two minutes of the half an hour long ordeal, would be any less terrifying from the other side of the curtain. “I’m sorry, I thought it was clean enough from you rinsing it out.”

“I literally said it tasted like shit,” Roger retorted, looking to John for backup.

“He did say it tasted wrong,” John agreed. “Like, multiple times.”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d keep drinking it if it tasted that bad, darling,” Freddie said, letting his head flop to the side as he looked at Roger as if he just couldn’t possibly go through the pains of keeping his head held up a moment longer.

“Just to be clear,” Roger said, clearing his throat. “You didn’t think I’d keep drinking the poison?”

“Oh, you’re so bloody dramatic,” Freddie huffed, pushing off from the chair. “You’re not going to _die_. Now, you need to get ready or we’re going to be late. You’ve wasted so much time with your histrionics!”

Roger’s mouth fell open and his brow furrowed, “I’m sorry, _I’ve_ wasted time? Me? You just gave yourself a fucking haircut!”

. Roger’s cheeks turned worryingly ruddy as he spluttered wordlessly at him.

“It’s okay, dear,” Freddie said primly, letting his arms fall to his sides as he stepped over the fallen dishcloth with a little prance. Daringly he stepped closer to Roger to pat him on the shoulder before hurriedly moving out of the way or Roger’s retaliatory swat, pausing just long enough to gently move John out of the way as he went: “I forgive you.”

John interjected before Roger had the opportunity to retort, the potential for boyish play fighting that endangered the tentative structural integrity of their kitchen table increasing with each verbal prod that Freddie let loose. A few days before Brian had trailed in, the oddly confused look he wore whenever he was trying not to give into being amused by antics he thought he should consider immature, behind a grinning Freddie from a trip to the shops — Roger’s first return to the corner store since the expiration of his last ban and one that Brian had insisted on chaperoning — with Roger suspiciously missing. Brian had guiltily explained that a small war had broken out in the Pick’n’Mix aisle and that John was now the only flatmate with permission to enter the store. “Roger’s still got plenty of time to get ready.”

Freddie hummed, giving Roger a once over from the safety of the doorway. He had, John noted dispassionately, tactically positioned himself so that John was stuck between the two of them as if John wouldn’t immediately offer up Freddie as sacrifice to Roger if it came down to it.

Roger wouldn’t do any lasting damage, John was sure. Freddie would survive.

“Well,” Freddie said, tossing his newly trimmed hair. “I’m going to fix up my makeup, Kash is an absolute _hag_ if she spots a flaw. As if I didn’t teach her everything she knows, the little minx.”

With that he flounced from the room. A moment passed before he reappeared, ducking his head around the corner to blow a kiss and trill, “Love you, dearest!”

Roger flipped him off again.

John smothered a grin in the sleeves of his jumper — the sleeves hung down low over his fingers, having been stretched in the wash by Brian just before Christmas. Brian had the magical ability to destroy any piece of clothing he was placed in charge of laundering. He thought he was sneaky, creeping out of the door with an Ikea bag full of dirty clothes every other weekend, but Roger had shown John the optimum time to sneak his bed linens into Mrs May’s fortnightly laundry extravaganza less than a week into his living with them.

Less than a minute passed in silence before Roger seemed to sag in on himself, the relaxed posture that had seen him leaning casually against the sink as he’d snarked with Freddie disappeared and for a brief moment he looked utterly exhausted. John blinked, and Roger was back to normal.

“You okay?” he asked, concerned.

Roger looked over at him, confusion evident on his face. “What?” he said, reaching up to shove his shades up and into his hair. “I’m fine, mate.”

“Oh,” said John, ducking his head embarrassed. He felt like he was lagging behind everyone else, stuck in the bleakness of the festive period drawn long while Freddie, Brian and Roger tried to move forwards. He knew, in part, that he was justified in his desire to confront the tensions which had persisted under the surface for the past few months — that the return to business as usual that he had been so hopeful to avoid in his careful encouragement of acknowledging Roger’s problems wasn’t healthy. He also knew, however, that Brian was right. Freddie knew Roger best. Freddie was the only person who knew the truth of it all apart from Roger, and that the silence he kept was at Roger’s behest.

“We weren’t really arguing,” Roger continued, now looking earnestly concerned as he shoved his hands deep in his front pockets. With his shades up and out of the way John could see the bags sitting heavy under his eyes, the darkness reminding John of just how little time Roger had been spending at home lately as he dashed from catch up to catch up at all hours of the day and night. “But you can tell us to knock it off, if you want. I know we can be a bit much, I—”

“No, no, no,” John interrupted hurriedly, shaking his head in the manner he knew made him resemble a particular enthusiastic cocker spaniel. “You just looked tired!”

Roger hesitated, a brief flicker of a thing that John couldn’t be sure he didn’t imagine. “Cheers, mate,” he said with a snort. “You’re just _lovely_.”

“Oh, fuck off,” John said, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear and pushing off from the doorframe to rummage around in the fridge for the bottle of Lucozade he’d stashed behind a head of cabbage the day before. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Do I?” Roger replied, sniffing exaggeratedly as if he were fighting back tears. “Or have you just torn my fragile self esteem to shreds?”

John drew the Lucozade out from the fridge and nudged the door shut with a small hip check. He turned to answer Roger when—

“Is that fucking Lucozade?” Roger asked excitedly, stepping away from the sink and crowding into John’s space. “Where the fuck have you been hiding that, Deacon?”

John drew the Lucozade to his chest defensively. “Behind the cabbage,” he said, grip tightening on the bottle as Roger bounced up and down. “You’re not having any.”

“Aw, come on,” Roger wheedled, moving in closer. “Just a taste? My mouth still tastes like chemical.”

“I’m not sure this’ll help with that,” John said dubiously, his conviction already wavering as he made the mistake of meeting Roger’s gaze. It was utterly unfair that someone as angelically gorgeous as Roger Taylor had been paired with the personality of a Tasmanian Devil on steroids.

“Please?” Roger pleaded. He accompanied his beg with an obnoxiously over the top blink, bottom lip wobbling. He had, it appeared, learned his negotiating tactics from a five year old with lip fillers.

John curled further inwards, his back hitting the fridge as he returned his gaze to the safety of the floor.

“My throat really hurts, you know,” Roger continued, tapping at John’s foot with his own.

“Ugh,” John groaned, shoving the bottle into Roger’s waiting hands. Roger cheered, opening the bottle and lifting it to his lips immediately. “ _Fine_ ,” John said, his earlier concern returning. He didn’t _think_ that the jewellery polish would really do all that much damage in such a small, and diluted, quantity but if there was any a man that would spontaneously drop dead of jewellery polish poisoning it would be Roger from sheer spite. “Should I call the poison hotline?”

Roger pulled the bottle from his lips with a gasp, smearing at his mouth with his mouth he shoved the bottle back towards John. John took it gingerly, noting as he did so that it was very much lighter than it had been when he had handed it over.

“Nah,” Roger said with a bright grin, earlier theatrics apparently forgotten. “Fred’s right, I’ve probably sniffed that shit in something before to be honest.”

“I hate you,” John said, sadly looking down into the dregs of his drink. He’d been so determined not to let this one get stolen. Lucozade was like gold in their household, or really any abode that housed multiple students. On any given day one of them was generally guaranteed to be either hungover in some capacity or suffering from whatever hellish bug was floating around their campuses. John had once watched Brian army crawl down their hallway and under the sofa to dig out a lukewarm Lucozade he had, so legend said, hid there two months prior in case of emergency.

How Freddie could find Brian’s tea but not his Lucozade stash remained a mystery to John.

“I’ll make it up to you,” Roger said sunnily, a shit eating grin spread wide across his features.

John squinted at him, trying desperately to dredge up some sort of genuine annoyance in the face of Roger’s easy going smile. The problem was, he considered, that Roger had the ability to connive his way into getting away with the most outrageous shit — three quarters of a bottle of Lucozade barely even qualified.

“How?” he asked suspiciously as Roger darted a look back at the bottle John held. Without hesitation John lifted the bottle to his own lips and sculled the remainder of the bottle, wincing as the carbonation burned at the back of his throat. Roger made a quiet, sad sort of disappointed noise. “How?” John repeated, jabbing at his chest with the now empty bottle.

“You never answered me before,” Roger said, hitching himself up to perch on the sink benchtop. “You got plans with the lovely Veronica tonight?”

John sighed. Roger was like a bloody hound. You thought you’d managed to distract him, sending him off on a conversational goose chase, and then you’d somehow find yourself cornered as he dropped the very topic you’d thought you’d so artfully avoided at your feet as his tail wagged away happily. Or something like that. The metaphor had, John admitted to himself, somewhat gotten away with him there.

“Why?” he asked resignedly.

“Well,” Roger said, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “The bedroom floor is available…” he trailed off as John just stared at him, unimpressed. He could handle Roger’s jibes so long as no one else was in the room. Hell, he’d _happily_ take them if it was the price to pay for his silence in the presence of others. “Fine,” Roger said, rolling his eyes. “You wanna come to dinner?”

“When?” John asked distractedly as his phone vibrated in his pocket again. He wanted to check it but he didn’t quite trust Roger not to pounce at it. Roger and Ronnie got on disturbingly well — John hadn’t even known that they had one another’s numbers until his great cock up on the night of Roger’s re-entry into society, but by the end of the night Ronnie had been sobbing drunkenly against Roger as he, equally as shitfaced, and their gaggle of drag queen’s glared at John from across the bar — and while he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not Roger knew, or rather _remembered_ if the glaring had meant anything, what was going on between he and Ronnie he sure as hell didn’t want to encourage any involvement on Roger’s part.

Shit was already fucked, bringing Roger into the picture merely spelled further disaster.

Also, if he was being honest with himself, he was a little worried that Roger might take Ronnie’s side.

There was a certain closeness to his friendship with Roger, Freddie, and even Brian that he hadn’t really experienced before, even with those he’d known since early childhood. It made him a little selfish, really. He wanted to hold onto it with both hands and not let go. It wasn’t what he had expected at all when he’d met with Freddie in that shitty little cafe down the road from his university in hopes of finding a new room to rent. But from the very moment that Roger had grabbed hold of his hand and dragged him across the hall to barter for their neighbours spare mattress, accepting in all of a minute that he had a new roommate and that he was going to make the best of it even as Brian had spluttered in the living room that they didn’t _need_ another flatmate, John had felt as if he was part of something a bit bigger than just himself. It was odd, in a way. He’d always been a relatively solitary individual, steady on his own even as he went about his business unmoored. He hadn’t realised how entwined he’d managed to become with the lot of them until he’d found himself losing sleep not just over the possibility of losing Ronnie but of disappointing Roger also.

“Tonight,” Roger said, his tone implying that this answer should have been obvious.

“No,” John replied immediately, shaking his head. “Nope. I am not getting you out of the family dinner, Rog. You’ll break Freddie’s heart.”

“Who said anything about getting out of family dinner?”

“You did,” John said slowly. He had the feeling they were having two very different conversations. “Just then.”

“No,” Roger replied, even slower. He widened his eyes comically as he spoke, pulling the face that customer service workers tended to pull when they were trying to communicate that, yes, there was a 5p surcharge for a plastic bag and, no, this was not negotiable for the third time to a balding man wearing a suit. “I invited you to come with me — and Freddie, I guess — to family dinner.”

“Oh,” John said, taken aback.

Because, you see the fortnightly Bulsara family dinner? It was very much a _Freddie-and-Roger_ thing. Brian, he knew, had never been invited. Occasionally Freddie or Roger would come home with a small serving of dal, the tupperware labelled neatly with Brian’s name, which Brian would greet with great enthusiasm and profuse thanks.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he said awkwardly, unsure how to navigate this unexpected turn in the conversation.

“So, you’ll come then!” Roger said brightly, jumping down from his perch and clapping him on the shoulder.

John gaped at him wordlessly.

“Perfect,” Roger continued, maneuvering around him to shimmy out of the door. “I’m just gonna take a piss real quick. Grab them containers and Fred, I’ll meet you out by the car in five.” John turned to argue but was cut off as Roger chucked his car keys at his face. “You don’t mind driving do you? Cheers, mate!”

And that’s how John found himself standing outside Freddie’s parents house wearing a stretched out jumper and sweatpants, clutching onto an assortment of cheap tupperware (and a salad bowl).

 

* * *

 

 

Freddie had been more than a little taken aback by John’s mumbled explanation (“Uhh, Roger told me to come.”) as to why it was exactly that he was accompanying him to the car. Roger, upon joining them, had offered no further clarification on the subject beyond, “Your mum said it was fine, Fred.”

Something which, as it turned out, wasn’t entirely true.

She was a petite woman, just barely reaching Roger’s chin as she stood on her tiptoes to embrace him properly. “Oh, we have missed you, my aziz-e delam.”

“What am I?” Freddie said indignantly, crossing his arms across his chest. “Chopped liver?”

Jer pulled back from Roger just slightly, bringing her hands up to cup his cheeks as she tutted at his sunglasses, “You have such beautiful eyes, I do not understand why you hide them so.”

“Missed you too, Mama Jer,” Roger said sweetly, kicking at Freddie’s ankle lightly as he continued to bitch lightheartedly next to them. John held his containers very carefully and tried his best to disappear entirely.

“It’s not like I’m your son or anything, is it?” Freddie went on, sniffing delicately as he tossed his hair. “Your beautiful darling boy who put in all this effort,” he said, gesturing to his rather elaborate outfit. John had never actually seen him in a dress before now, but he had to admit he pulled it off rather well. “To come and see you. But no, I’m _sidelined_ because you love Roger more!”

“Well,” Jer said, ducking in to press a kiss to Roger’s cheek before drawing back fully and moving on to Freddie. She pressed quick kisses to both of his cheeks, rubbing her fingers over them just after as if to chase away any imperfections she may have caused with her affection. “It is much easier to love the children you did not have to birth, Freddie,” she continued jokingly as Freddie let out a dramatic gasp. “I look at you and I see 17 hours of labour, I look at Roger and I see no such pain.”

Freddie wrenched back, almost stumbling into John who took a hurried step back of his own. “Do you see what I have to put up?” Freddie demanded, spinning around to face him. “The disrespect?”

“Uhh,” replied John eloquently. He was almost overcome with the desire to dump his cargo on Freddie and make a run for it.

“Oh!” exclaimed Jer, poking at Roger’s arm incessantly until he moved aside with a laugh. “You must be—” she stopped abruptly upon setting eyes on him, confusion colouring her features. She had Freddie’s delicate nose and wide, expressive eyes, but their overall facial structure was very different. Freddie had cheekbones you could cut glass with and a jawline sharper than any razor John had ever seen grace their bathroom cabinet, whereas Jer’s face was of a much rounder shape. Their lips, however, held a trace of one another in the delicate arch of their cupids bows. “You are not Brian,” she finished, sounding unconsciously accusatory as her eyes flitted from his hair to the tupperware he held.

“No,” confirmed John. “I’m John.”

“Oh,” she said contemplatively, darting a questioning look over at Roger who had his hands held up in front of himself defensively.

“I said I was bringing one of our roommates!” he insisted, false innocence painted across the lines of his body. “I never said which one! Why would you assume I was bringing Brian anyway?”

Jer’s lips pursed minutely before she muttered, “Why indeed.”

John looked over at Freddie who met his gaze for a second before directing his eyes to the brickwork beneath his feet, his shoulders shaking as he attempted to suppress his mirth. John couldn’t help but wonder why Freddie couldn’t have inherited his mother’s no bullshit approach to the Brian and Roger situation.

“You tricked me, kochak shir,” Jer chided, reaching up to tap at Roger’s nose in much the same manner as Freddie scolded Cleo when he caught her in his sock drawer. “These,” she teased, slipping his sunglasses from his face. “Are now mine, I think.”

Roger winced as she took them from him, ducking his head so that his hair swung about his face. He shoved his hands into his front pockets and rocked back on his heels, looking more like a knock kneed little boy than a grown man.

Jer sucked in a sharp breath, darting further forwards. She tilted his head back up again with her fingers under his chin, “You are still sick.” It was not a question. “You have a flush,” she continued, her tone turning toward fretful. She looked at Freddie accusingly, “I would have brought soup if you had told me. You never tell me these things, Freddie.”

Freddie frowned, sucking his lips behind his teeth as he, too, leaned towards Roger. “I can’t tell you he’s sick if he doesn’t tell _me_ , Mama,” he said earnestly, as the two of them crowded in on Roger. It was well meaning, John knew, but he was unsurprised when Roger’s hand snatched out to grab the sunglasses from Jer’s lax grip — it was a telling move; one hand was firm, taking that which belonged to him without compromise, but his other hand brushed away any perception of hostility as it came up to clasp her wrist gently. He swept his thumb over the back of her hand one, twice, and then let it fall.

“I’ve got a…” he trailed off, shoving his shades back on as he let the silence linger a beat, tongue darting briefly to wet his lips. “Headache,” he finished, shrugging with a sheepish grin.

Jer scrutinised Roger for just long enough that he began to shuffle uncomfortably under her gaze before he concern dropped from Jer’s face, the ghost of Freddie’s cheekiest grin growing at the corners of her mouth. “Ah,” she said, stepping back. “No wine with dinner for you!”

“Hair of the dog!” Roger protested, shoulders relaxing as Freddie also huffed and moved out of his space.

“Am I going to get an apology?” Freddie inquired with the air of one trying to start shit.

“No,” Jer answered, paying no mind to Freddie’s mock offence as he stumbled off of the porch only to topple over and into one of the hydrangea bushes which lined the pathway to the gate. “You try to keep things from me. I am your mother; I know.” A heavy silence fell for all of a second. John studied the mismatched brickwork under his feet carefully, collection of warped and mismatched tupperware held precariously in his arms.

Freddie tugged on the back of his jumper as he righted himself sending the salad bowl flying. The tupperware, John thought, had spent more time on the floor than anywhere else. He definitely wouldn’t be nicking any leftovers from the fridge in the coming days; fuck only knew what lived on the Bulsara’s garden path, and their kitchen floor was in all likelihood even grimier.

“Shit,” he muttered, craning his neck to see where it had ended up. The cracked bottom peered back up at him from next to an empty flower pot. “Fuck.”

“Oh dear,” Freddie ventured, sounding completely unbothered by this turn of events as if he hadn’t been him stood in their kitchen just a couple of hours ago fretting about the lack of acceptable food receptacles for his mother’s dhansak.

John decided not to point out the twig sticking out of his hair, his fluttering hands having managed to miss it as he patted about in an attempt to return it to its pre-tumble state.

Too late did he remember the presence of Jer. His head shot back up, eyes wide as he stumbled over rushed apologies: “Shi— I’m sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean. I mean, I did, but. I shouldn’t have...” He trailed off under Jer’s steely gaze, feeling for all the world as if he were back in school and had just told the Head Teacher he needed a piss.

“Deaks,” Roger said, laughter lurking somewhere below the surface. “Mate, shut the fuck up.”

Freddie burst into laughter and, apparently having had enough of conducting this conversation on the porch, shouldered his way past his mother — smacking an effusive and loud kiss to her cheek as he went which she brushed away with an eye roll and an exasperated sigh — with a shout of: “Baba, it is I! Your darling son!”

Jer gave John a soft smile, the sort imbued with an inherent maternal warmth that had him relaxing as he returned it gratefully. “I’ve been rude,” she said, moving aside to beckon he and Roger inside. “I am sorry, John. Please, welcome to our home.”

As John traipsed after Roger, a steady voice from further in the house, “Ah, and have you brought Roger with you?”

John, copying Roger, toed his shoes off and left them to sit by the front door. Roger had collected a pair of house shoes from a small cupboard by the door and John found himself grateful that although the rest of his outfit was wanting, he had, at least, put on a pair of nice socks that morning.

“You know what,” came Freddie’s indignant voice, bouncing off of the walls. “Next time I’m not going to come, and you know what? You’ll all miss me then!”

Jer sighed, shaking her head as she bustled through the hallway, disappearing into what John assumed was the kitchen. “Please, Freddie,” she called, the clanging of a pot accompanying her voice. “Do go down the garden and see if there are any worms for you to eat for your supper.”

Roger snorted at the taken aback look John could only assume was splashed across his features. “Nobody loves me, everybody hates me,” he sing-songed lowly, hanging his borrowed flannel up on the coat hook by the door. “I think I’ll go eat worms…” he trailed off. John blinked at him blankly for a moment before, trailing in like a long forgotten cousin at a family reunion, the old nursery rhyme came to him.

“Oh,” he said, embarrassed. “Right.”

“Your face, Deaky,” Roger laughed. “Don’t worry, we won’t feed you worms for dinner.”

“I’ve seen what you think counts as cooking,” John retorted, gathering the scraps of his composure around him like a comfort blanket. This whole situation had him off balance. He wasn’t sure why he had been invited, and he didn’t trust that it was a spur of the moment decision on Roger’s part out of the goodness of his heart either. He felt he may have been given the option of saying _no_ if that were the case. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did dish me up worms one of these days.”

“Well,” Roger said, not denying the charge. “That’s why I brought you to dinner instead of making it, innit?”

John sighed, the kind of all body sigh that he didn’t think he’d ever had occasion to affect prior to meeting Freddie and Roger but that he now had great familiarity with. In his arms the remaining tupperware jostled.

Roger started at the sound and gave him an apologetic smile, taking the tupperware from him.

“Shit, sorry,” he said lowly, stacking the containers up in his own arms carefully. “I should have taken these off you earlier. Cheers, mate.”

“S’alright,” John said, mirroring his low tone just in case. Family’s were weird, and all sorts of unwritten rules swirled about the corners of households and in the well-worn grooves of their floorboards. It was always best, John had learned over the years, to copy the behaviour of the household members you had been invited in by until you yourself were an auxiliary member of the family too. Those first few trips around his mates places in school had always been careful and quiet until, somewhere along the way, the barrier was broken and their mums, and dads, and siblings no longer blinked at seeing John sitting about in their spaces.

Roger shot him a warm look, the small kind that always left John feeling as if the smallest of favours he’d granted were the be all and end all as far as Roger was concerned.

The containers all secure in Roger’s arms, excepting the largest which he had lowered his head for John to balance it on in the form of a demented hat, he gestured to the kitchen, “I’m gonna go pass these off to Ma Jer. Fred’s just in the living room with Baba Bomi, if you wanna join?”

John very much did not want to join.

“Yeah sure,” he said, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile but felt like more of a gallows grimace.

Roger looked at him for a moment longer, his mouth falling open just barely as if there was something more he wanted to say, before he headed down the hallway and into the kitchen. Loud, tinkling laughter sounded from the kitchen at his appearance.

John stood in the foyer, toying with the idea of collecting his shoes and buggering off. He wouldn’t, he knew, but it was comforting somehow to consider it in its full potential before discarding the idea completely.

“Kashi!” Jer called from the kitchen, her voice louder than John would have ever expected from such a small woman. Maybe it was something that just happened once you had children. As soon as they were born you had the sudden ability to scream their names louder than any other known noise. His own mum definitely had that ability. Once, he swore, she’d called him in for dinner after school and he’d heard her from six streets away. “Your barādarān are here!”

There was a bang from above his head and the thudding of footsteps before a voice screamed out, “Roger, you slag!”

Immediately, Jer and Bomi’s voices called out scoldingly: “Kashmira!”

Deciding that the hallway was in imminent danger of no longer being a safe haven, John scurried into the living room.

“I am sure,” Bomi was saying to Freddie evenly, a newspaper folded up neatly on his lap as he eyed his dress. Freddie was preening next to the television, Eastenders playing on mute as he spread out the skirt of his dress for appreciation. “That I have seen that dress before.”

John tried to imagine what his mum’s response to him rocking up to a family gathering wearing a dress would be.

“I doubt it, Baba,” Freddie replied, smoothing out the skirt as he let it go. Bomi’s eyes flicked over to John briefly before returning to his son. “It’s brand new. I bought it just for today.”

“Hmm,” Bomi hummed, he picked up his newspaper and placed it on the coffee table in front of him. “A new dress just for dinner? What have we done to merit such treatment, Farrokh?”

Freddie glared at him halfheartedly at the use of his given name. John had only heard him called by it once, when Roger had discovered a small tear in a jacket they’d been planning on flogging online after Freddie had worn it for ‘one last night on the town, sweetheart’. The sight of Roger standing in the living room clutching the garrish garment in his hand as he lambasted a pathetically hungover Freddie would have been amusing if it hadn’t been for John’s own hangover at the time.

“I haven’t the foggiest as to what you mean, Baba,” Freddie said, the posh accent he liked to affect growing stronger as it tended to when he was talking out of his arse. “This is John, by the way,” he continued snottily. “Seeing as you didn’t ask.”

“I know,” replied Bomi, nodding at him in greeting. John gave an awkward half wave, suddenly acutely aware that he was wearing _sweatpants_ , and immediately regretted not just nodding back. “I follow him, as they say, ‘on the gram’.”

Freddie looked horror struck: “Please, never say that again.”

(John hadn’t even known that Brian had been home at the time until he’d been sat on the bus an hour later, mindlessly tapping his way through the Insta stories that had been uploaded since he had last checked the night before.

Brian’s began as blank darkness, a ‘sound on’ emoji sitting near the bottom right with several crudely drawn red arrows pointing to it for emphasis. John turned his sound on just as the camera moved to capture Brian, looking exhausted, staring into the lens from his bed.

)

“Wait,” said Freddie slowly, visibly coming to some kind of conclusion in his head. He looked a bit as if he had been handed one of the connect the dots puzzles you were given as children and was slowly coming to terms with the fact that he’d been given the dud. There wasn’t going to be a butterfly or a cool car here, no. He was clearly getting a beachball. “Do you follow m—”

“You _bitch_!”

John jumped, turning around to find Kashmira glaring venomously at Freddie from the doorway. John shuffled out of the way, bumping into an ornate lamp as he tried desperately to put himself in an unobtrusive position as possible.

Bomi, taking pity, gestured to the seat next to him. John gratefully scurried over, ducking down awkwardly as he passed between Freddie and Kash as if their very lines of sight could be potentially deadly. As he sat, Bomi passed him the sports section from the newspaper. “Do you follow the cricket?” he asked, seemingly unconcerned by the staring match being conducted by his two children that threatened to devolve into violence at any moment.

“Uh,” said John, taking the paper from him. “Not really?”

“Hmm,” hummed Bomi, looking at him consideringly. “That is okay. We can fix that,” he said with a wink, patting John’s hand. With that said he opened up the remainder of the newspaper he still held in his lap and began reading, paying no further mind to Freddie and Kash.

John sat very still.

“Ah,” said Bomi, quietly to himself. “So that is where I have seen the dress before.”

“I hope you go _bald_ ,” Kash hissed, stabbing her admittedly impressive nails in Freddie’s direction. “I hope you inherited Uncle Ramin’s gene’s and that you’re bald by the time you hit thirty.”

Freddie gasped dramatically, “You take that back!”

“Make me,” Kash shot back, leaning in threateningly.

“My brother,” Bomi said to John in an aside, turning the page of his newspaper nonchalantly. “Was like an egg by twenty five, actually.”

“That’s a shame,” John said weakly.

“Yes,” agreed Bomi. “He is not blessed with his looks, but luckily has much skill with the harmonica.”

John had honestly no idea how to respond to that.

“You don’t even have the shape for it!” Kash wailed, looking to her dad for backup. Bomi immediately dropped his eyes back to his newspaper.

“I have the shape for _everything_ ,” Freddie shot back, immediately offended.

“You haven’t got tits, Freddie!” Kash exclaimed, throwing her hands in air exasperatedly. “You haven’t even bloody stuffed it, you twat!”

“Kashi,” Bomi said lowly.

“I’m sorry, Baba, but he hasn’t!”

“What, do you think I just have that sort of thing just lying around?”

The room fell silent. John found himself as part of the collective as he, Bomi, and Kash all watched Freddie blankly, the answer to his rhetorical question hanging heavy in the air.

“Fu—”

“Freddie!” Jer interrupted, walking into the room with a dishtowel held tight between both hands. She wrung it anxiously, “Freddie, I didn’t prepare anything for John.”

The antagonistic atmosphere dissipated with Jer’s entrance. Bomi cleared his throat and put his newspaper aside, gesturing for John to hand him the unread sports section. John handed it back over to him and tried to look as least an inconvenience as he possibly could.

He was going to murder Roger for this.

“What?” said Freddie, shifting gears as he blinked at his mother. “You always cook too much, Mama.”

“Yes,” Jer said slowly. She widened her eyes as she continued, jerking her head lightly in John’s direction: “But I did not _prepare_ anything for _John_.”

Freddie looked at her blankly. “O- _kay_ ,” he drawled, pulling an exaggerated expression which encouraged her to elaborate. When Jer merely wrung the dishcloth in her hands tighter he sighed, “What’s wrong, Mama.”

Jer sent John a panicked look.

“I can… leave?” John asked, unsure.

“It’s okay?” John tried. He felt as if he were throwing out random assortments of words and hoping that something would stick.

Jer smiled tremulously at him, “Oh, you are a good boy, aren’t you?”

Kash, who hadn’t so much as looked in his direction now, gave him a long, assessing look. The curl of her lip indicated she was less than impressed by what she saw.

John tried not to be intimidated and failed miserably.

“That’s our Deaky!” exclaimed Roger, appearing behind Jer like a spectre, his shades now pushed up into his hair. The Bulsara’s appeared to keep the house in dim lighting — lamps dotted the living room at random intervals, bathing the room is a soft glow. It was cosy, but John couldn’t imagine all that easy to see in with sunglasses on. Then again, John had once wandered onto the balcony for a quick fag at 3am to find Roger sat, shades firmly in place, reading a battered paperback by the light of the streetlights. “A real good boy.”

“Hmmm,” hummed Bomi. John tried desperately not to let himself think of what else was lurking on the pages of his Instagram.

Jer turned to Roger to swat him lightly with her dishcloth, doing so again when he overplayed his reaction and stumbled into the same lamp John had had difficulty with earlier. The image they made, Jer and Roger, as she hit at him ineffectively with the dishcloth as he tried to correct the placement of the lampshade as he laughed was sweet.

John had known, but there was a difference in knowing and seeing. There was a difference in knowing that Kash commented on all of Roger’s Insta posts and was the only one to have a guaranteed response, and seeing her creased up in laughter as she watched her mother gently bully Roger. There was a difference between knowing that Roger fit, somehow, into this family unit and in seeing the way Bomi had straightened up, a pleased smile appearing on his face, when Roger had entered the room.

“It is good to see you, pesar,” Bomi said, unfolding himself slowly to stand as Jer stopped her swatting. She herself was laughing too hard to continue now, the lampshade having fallen to the floor during their antics. He gestured for Roger to come forward to him, which Roger duly did — tripping over his feet as he did so, sending Kash into further giggles. John couldn’t help but let a small laugh out himself, Roger reminded him of Simba in the first half of The Lion King. All golden hair, wide eyes, and stumbling feet with a voice trying desperately hard to roar. “We have missed you,” Bomi said lowly, embracing Roger.

It wasn’t the kind of hug that John was used to seeing shared between two men. The kind of hug that he had received from countless uncles and family friends at his father’s funeral, the hugs that demarcated the exact point at which he had been expected to leave childhood behind and become the man of the house. He had been eleven years old, blinking back tears that held the weight of all of the oceans in salt and despair, and in every rough pat to the back and gruff one armed shake they had piled on his bony shoulders all of the earth that was to be cast upon his father’s casket had been transferred to him.

Watching the full bodied embrace of Bomi and Roger, the way in which their arms encircled one another without hesitation or shame in the affection that was being passed between them, and the tenderness that existed in the kiss Bomi pressed to Roger’s cheek as he pulled away, John thought he could finally understand how Freddie had grown to be the open, loving man he had. How could he have become any other kind of man in such an environment?

“Missed you too,” Roger mumbled into the thick wool of Bomi’s sweater vest, his nose ducking into the fabric quickly. Roger, John had noticed, was big on scent. He liked to be clean, and he liked to surround himself with comforting smells. The comforting smells he liked the most, however, were those of others. Back before everything had gone to shit, Brian had gone in for a hug after a long day at work and, smelling Freddie’s shampoo in Roger’s hair, proceeded to bundle him up on the sofa with all of their blankets and a mug of his special tea.

“This is all very sweet and all,” Kash interrupted, hands on hips and looking the spitting image of her brother who was stood opposite in exactly the same pose. “But I’m _starving_.”

“Yes,” agreed Freddie, tapping his foot. “Also, I would like to point out that _I_ did not receive a hug—” he was cut off by Kash who let out a loud groan.

“You want a hug do you?” she asked threateningly, not giving him a chance to respond before she half tackled him to the ground. It was possibly the most aggressive hug John had ever seen. “You want a hug?”

“No!” yelped Freddie, collapsing to the ground like a sack of potatoes. “No, get off! Get off!”

“You said you wanted a hug!” Kash argued, arms held tight around him as if she were attempting to restrain him. As Freddie stopped struggling, lay face down on the carpet and muttering insults under his breath, she let him go, only to sit down triumphantly on his back. Freddie’s skirt had flipped up in the scrap, his briefs proudly declaring to the room that it was Thot Thursday.

Bomi, at a sharp glance from Jer, sighed: “Kashi, do not wrestle your brother.”

Jer hummed approvingly.

“In the house,” Bomi continued, tapping a finger to the crown of Kash’s head. “There is a perfectly good boxing ring outside, do it there.”

“Bomi!” Jer exclaimed, chucking her dishcloth at him. He caught it easily, seemingly having foretold this turn of events, with a grin and a shrug.

Roger, stood to the side where he had been fixing up the lamp, was watching the four of them with a wistful sort of smile on his face as if he were trying to memorise the scene. It made John feel both uncomfortable and at ease. On the one hand, it was always nice to have a brother in arms; someone who also didn’t quite _fit_ in the household you had made the mistake of accepting an invitation into, unwittingly invading the family space — the softness of a blanket that has been washed to the point of becoming threadbare and yet never quite tips over the precipice, and the faintest smell of an everlasting affection that cannot and will not be replaced so long as there is but one left to remember and foster — with your otherness that you hadn’t realised was anything but the norm until now.

On the other hand, however, there was an _aperture_ for Roger. He could see it lingering on the edges of the interactions between the Bulsara’s, small hesitations where they were expecting welcomed interruptions that never came.

“I’m hungry,” Kash whined, bouncing on Freddie’s back for emphasis. Freddie let out a sad sort of _humph_ sound at the movement. “Oh, shut your face,” Kash snapped, clambering up with a hand from her father. “I’m not that heavy.”

Freddie flopped over onto his back and glared up at her, hair all about his face. The internal battle as to whether it was worth antagonising her further by contesting that statement was clear on his face.

“Also, you’ve got half a tree stuck in your hair,” she continued, reaching down to pull out the twig that had been sat in there since his tumble in the front garden. She tugged it out, ignoring his petulant protestation of pain and also the strands of hair she pulled with it, and dropped it on his chest.

Freddie picked it up, propping himself up on his elbows as he twirled it about between his fingers. He pointed it at Roger accusingly, “You knew about this.”

Roger blinked at him, the picture of innocence.

Freddie squinted at him for a long moment before giving up and letting his head fall back so that he could glare at John instead. “Fine, _you_ knew about this!”

Bomi let out a deep laugh, and moved Kash out of the way to give Freddie a hand up as well.

“You’re lying,” Freddie said suspiciously. Despite this, he was now inspecting the twig with interest as if it had, in fact, complemented his outfit.

“Am I?” John replied blandly, picking nonchalantly at a loose thread on the cuff of his jumper.

“I didn’t even notice,” Roger jumped in, now leaning precariously against the lamp.

Jer’s gaze jumped between him and Roger before she offered, sending him a wink as she did so, “I was going to ask where you had bought it, eshgham.”

“You were telling me the other day about sustainable fashion,” John tacked on with a shrug. “Can’t get more sustainable than that, right?”

“Oh,” Freddie exhaled, a wide smile taking over the entirety of his face. “I didn’t think you were listening!”

John had, in fact, not really been listening. Unfortunately a certain amount of information absorption through involuntary osmosis tended to occur when Freddie really got going; his nattering was the perfect pitch and speed that even when you thought you had tuned it out completely you could somehow recall with perfect clarity that it was impossible to use a half-loop topstitch on low-viscosity rayon as it would snag the fabric.

To be fair, that information had later come in very handy at a charity quiz night for AIDS research when Freddie had ducked to the bathroom during the fashion round. Roger had fucked off to give the table next to them, who were in the running for the wooden spoon, a hand. Brian, competitive in any and every thing exc epting Scrabble, had bought him two drinks in exchange for the round winning answer.

(“He purposely doesn’t try anymore,” Roger whispered in John’s ear as they watched Brian put down ‘AH’ in response to Freddie’s ‘ZIPPED’. “He won once and Freddie has never let him forget it.”

“Freddie’s never let him forget it?” John murmured, though he needn't have bothered given the volume of heckling Freddie was now subjecting Brian to in the face of his lacklustre turn.

“Well,” Roger replied with a cheeky grin as he moved off of John’s shoulder to put down his own turn. “Maybe not _just_ Freddie.”

John looked down at the board where Roger had just placed ‘ZYGOTE’ on a double word tile. He sighed and shuffled his tiles again. There wasn’t much you could do when playing against Freddie and Roger when you yourself were having an awful run of nothing but vowels.

“You utter cunt, Taylor!” Freddie squawked upon sighting his word, reaching over to chuck a handful of salt and vinegar crisps at him.)

“God,” Kash sighed, rolling her eyes with the dramatic exaggeration that characterised every seventeen year old ever. And Freddie. “As if you gave him a _choice_ , Freddie.”

Freddie, now looping his hair into a half top knot at the back of his head and sticking the twig through it to keep it in place, stuck his tongue out at her: “No one likes you, Kash.”

“Roger likes me,” Kash retorted smugly, eschewing sticking her own tongue out to flip him the bird instead.

“Baba!” Freddie whined, spinning around to face his father. “Kash just—”

Bomi interrupted him, stepping from between the two of them to loop an arm around Jer’s elbow as she opened her mouth. “We saw nothing and we are going to the kitchen, yes, sheereen-am?”

Jer sighed and allowed herself to be steered from the room. Bomi gave Roger a pat on the shoulder as he went, as if wishing him luck.

“You know you’re my favourite,” Roger said to Kash with a wink.

Freddie gasped, raising a hand to his chest as if he had been shot.

“Have you ever given me a bedazzled binder for my songs?” Roger asked him, raising an eyebrow as he stood up fully from his lamp slouch to make his way over the sofa. He tugged at a lock of Kash’s hair as he went before collapsing on top of John and wriggling around until he head was comfortably laid in his lap. “I don’t think so.”

“No,” said Freddie. “Because I have _taste_.”

“I was fourteen, you dick!”

“You have a twig in your hair,” John pointed out to Freddie blandly, fingers already stroking through Roger’s hair. It was a pavlovian response at this point. A flatmate appeared within grabbing reach? Play with their hair.

“I bloody _knew_ you lot were fucking with me,” Freddie hissed, reaching up to tug the twig from his hair roughly.

“But ya didn’t though, did you?” quipped Kash, twirling around on one heel to lay down on Roger. She slung her legs over the end of the sofa and lay a smug, smacking kiss on Roger’s arm.

Freddie gaped at her. “I trusted him!” he spluttered, pointing at John accusingly. “Mama would lie, sure, and I know better than to trust that scoundrel,” he continued, shifting his finger in Roger’s direction. Roger blinked up at him all too innocently again. “Oh, put away the baby blues, you charlatan.”

Roger snorted, giving up the ghost and wriggling down further so that Kash was more securely laid with her head resting on his tummy.

“But John!” Freddie wailed, looking all of two seconds from swooning. “Sweet, honest John! John wouldn’t lie!”

Roger looked up at him, nose scrunched up with confusion and cheek smushed into John’s thigh, “The fuck are you talking about?”

“Sweet, honest, _virginal_ John,” Freddie wailed, louder this time. Kash let out a disgusted noise and shot back up off of Roger to perch on the arm of the sofa instead.

“Mate,” started Roger, a grin stretching across his face dangerously.

“I will murder you,” John said softly, fingers stilling in Roger’s hair. “And I won’t feel the slightest bit of remorse.”

“How sweet and virginal of you,” Roger replied, pushing his head back into John’s hand in the exact same manner at Cleo demanding more pats. Just like he did with Cleo, John gave in immediately and resumed his ministrations.

“Well,” said Kash, slowly lowering herself back onto the sofa. This time, however, she sat primly on Roger’s feet and ignored entirely Roger’s obvious attempts at tickling her thighs with his toes. “Lots of serial killers are virgins, actually,” she looked over at him, that same assessing look on her face as before. “Does look a bit like a serial killer.”

Freddie, apparently giving the conversation up as a lost cause, huffed and collapsed none too gracefully back onto the floor. His skirt billowed around his as he dropped and he had to spend a couple of second patting at it to let the air out from underneath it before he could sit comfortably.

“Thanks?” said John unsurely.

“ Weren’t a compliment,” Kash said, looking at him as if he were some strange bug she’d found under her shoe. She managed to impart on him with a single look the same anxiety he had passing groups of giggling teenagers outside of shops and public loo’s. The kind of anxiety that whispered in his head as he hurried by that he was manifestly _uncool_ and that everyone knew it; that they were going to _make sure_ everyone knew it; and also that his fly was open.

“Kash is all about serial killers and true crime,” Freddie informed him when it became clear that John didn’t have a response. “Knows all sorts of things — really gruesome.”

John flitted his gaze between the three of them, none of them giving any indication that this was a strange niche interest. “And I look like a serial killer?” he mumbled under his breath. Kash squinted over at him, not having heard what it was he had said but likely understanding it had been uncharitable.

Roger shrugged on his lap, bony shoulder coming much too close to John’s dick for his liking. “Teenage girl,” he said plainly, as if this explained anything.

John thought about Julie.

It did actually explain quite a bit.

“Right,” he replied. He had the awful feeling that Julie and Kash would get on like a house on fire. They could never meet.

There was a long pause, and then: “I want to study criminology,” Kash said, hesitantly. “I find it really interesting.”

“No,” said Freddie dismissively, rolling his head to meet John’s eye. “She just likes Midsomer Murders.”

Any and all vulnerability that Kasmira had let fall over her dissipated in but a second, her posture turning stiff and twice as dismissive of Freddie in turn. “That’s not true,” she retorted heatedly, crossing her arms. “I just want to study something actually useful instead of _art_.”

Freddie’s own posture stiffened, “Art doesn’t have to be _useful_ , Kash—”

“‘S really cool,” Roger interrupted Freddie, drawing his foot out from under Kash to poke at her leg for attention. Freddie bristled, but subsided as Roger shot him a quick glare: “That you know what you want to study, Kash. That’s pretty fucking cool.”

Kash smiled at him brightly, the tension leaving her body as quickly as it had arrived.

“Doesn’t matter what got you interested in it, yeah? You like what you like,” Roger continued, rolling over onto his back so that he could prop himself up on his elbows to look at her properly. “Fred’s just jealous ‘cause you’re gonna get an actual, like, job out of it and he’s gonna be stuck with me flogging fake Louis Vuitton’s on eBay or some shit.”

“Ugh!” Kash exclaimed, flailing off the sofa and onto the floor in front of Freddie. “God, you’re fucking minging!”

“You should see our bedroom,” John muttered. His aside went unheard by everyone but Roger as, once he said it, Freddie saw his chance to sit on Kash’s face and took it.

“You love me really,” Roger said, smiling sunnily up at him — “Freddie, if you fart I swear to God I’ll tell Baba what Snapchat is!” — apparently unworried about the potential sororicide occuring not two foot from where they were sitting.

Freddie gasped and let Kash push him off of her: “I knew it was you who taught him how to use Instagram!”

“You told him about my date with Darren,” Kash retorted, unrepentant.

“I certainly did not!” Freddie denied, looking offended.

Kash looked unconvinced, as she should. Freddie had been telling pretty much anyone who would stand still long enough to listen all about his baby sister, the heartbreaker, and the date she’d left almost in tears at the Pizza Hut salad bar.

“Or maybe I did,” Freddie continued with a shrug. “I can’t be expected to remember, it was months ago!”

“Baba remembers,” Kash pointed out, unimpressed.

“My Instagram,” Freddie hissed, colour rising high on his cheeks reminiscent of the time his attempt at natural, homemade blush had stained him a bright peachy tone for three days. “Is _not_ for parental eyes!”

“ _What_ ,” Bomi thundered from the doorway, looking startlingly imposing as he glared down at them all. “Is going on in here?”

Freddie, poised to shriek again, quickly closed his mouth and pointed at Kash accusingly. Bomi looked between the two of them, a heavy set frown settled on his face.

Bomi directed his gaze at John who tried his hardest to look innocent of all charges while Roger, his face buried in the soft material of his sweatpants, tried to stifle his laughter.

“I have no idea,” John blurted when Bomi’s gaze lingered. “Sir,” he tacked on the end, cringing as soon as the honorific left his mouth. On his lap, Roger shook even harder with laughter.

“We’re learning,” Roger choked out, his face bright red and breath coming in the sort of strangled gasps that indicated whatever control he’d wrestled over himself was tenuous at best. “The importance of flared bases on—”

Bomi held a hand up, and Roger cut himself off.

“John,” Bomi said heavily, closing his eyes as if praying from patience. He opened them again and looked at him seriously, “I have had this conversation with Freddie, Roger, Kashi and now you.” He paused, gaze steady. John, unsure as to whether or not he was required to respond, nodded. “It is important,” Bomi continued, ignoring the shaking form of Roger on John’s lap and the way Kash was biting down on her fist. “That if you are to use a penetrative device in anal sex—”

Freddie let out a mournful groan and proceeded to lay face down on the floor.

“That you use a device with an appropriately flared base. This is for your own safety and the safety of any partner you may have. Preferably, you will also use a device made of medical grade silicon that has been cleaned prior to use.” There was no hint of amusement on Bomi’s face, and he persisted relentlessly. “It is important to know that there is no shame in discussing sexual matters with health professionals, trusted friends, and family. Consensual safe sexual practice is healthy, normal, and to be celebrated. Our home is a safe space.”

John stared at him, frozen.

Bomi looked at each of them in turn for a long moment, despite John being the only one still facing him. “Also,” he concluded. “Dinner is ready.”

That said, he turned and left the room which sat silently in his wake. John blinked at the empty space he had left in the doorway, something close to shellshock settling over him as his mind tried to make sense of what had just happened.

“I _hate_ you,” Freddie whimpered, rolling over onto his back and covering his face with his arm. “I hate you _so_ much, Kash.”

Kash, who had at some point during Bomi’s small, and clearly well practiced, lecture stuffed her face in between the sofa cushions Roger’s legs were laying on, emerged with tears of mirth streaming down her face. “I don’t even care,” she giggled, wiping at her eyes ineffectually. “That was _hilarious_.”

“I can’t believe,” Roger choked out between bouts of laughter, face still half concealed in John’s lap. “That he gave the talk to _Deaky_.”

“What,” John articulated slowly, looking between Roger, Kash and Freddie. “The _fuck_ just happened.”

“Well,” said Roger, shoulders still trembling as he attempted to gain control over himself once more. “If you ever, uh, forget to use a ‘device with an appropriately flared base’,” the air quotes were very much implied, though unnecessary given Roger’s exaggerated and entirely too suggestive eyebrow wiggle. “You can come to Papa Bomi for help?”

Roger succeeded in keeping a straight face for all of three seconds before bursting into the ridiculous giggle-snorts he tended to devolve into once he’d completely lost control of himself.

John shoved him onto the floor.

“ _Why?_ ” he hissed down at the three of them. To Freddie’s credit he, at least, looked appropriately mortified.

“Our—” Kash gasped, leaning against Roger as the two of them cackled. “Our home is a _safe space_!”

“It doesn’t feel like one right now,” John grumbled though he could feel his slight annoyance fading away and transforming into a vague incredulous awe. His initial response had been embarrassment, but looking down at the way Kash and Roger were curled in on one another in their amusement he couldn’t help but also see the humour of the situation.

After all, he thought, he hadn’t been the one to _earn_ that lecture.

“Hey Fred,” he said slowly, a question dawning on him. “What _was_ it that you—”

“Right,” exclaimed Freddie, scampering to his feet with little to no thought given to the requirements a skirt demanded regarding modesty. “You heard Baba, dinner’s ready!”

He strode from the room, paying no attention to the renewed peals of laughter from Kash and Roger at his tactical retreat.

 

* * *

 

 

Kash and Roger had stayed in the kitchen under the guise of helping Bomi and Jer dish everything up, though from what John could see through the pass through their help largely consisted of taking turns stealing sips of wine as the other acted as a distraction.

“Not going to join in?” John asked Freddie, tilting his head in their direction.

Freddie, who had spent the time since they had sat down opposite one another watching him curiously, startled and looked over his shoulder just in time to catch Roger take a particularly deep swig as Kash pulled Bomi in for a hug.

“I don’t have to, darling,” Freddie said, turning back to him with a small smirk. “I’m allowed to drink at dinner. No hangover this time!”

The amount of pride that stood behind that statement was a bit concerning for a Thursday evening.

“Well done,” replied John drolly.

Freddie sent him a wink. Despite having turned up looking utterly pristine, he was now looking more than a little dishevelled. His hair was smushed up at the back and resembled a birds nest, even after the removal of the twig, and his makeup had been smeared about during the various visits his face had made to the carpet since they had arrived.

“Thank you,” Freddie said out of nowhere, unexpectedly soft and barely audible over the chorus of laughter and bickering coming from the kitchen.

“Huh?” asked John, looking up from where he had been attempting to get his knife to remain balanced vertically in the prongs of his fork. As soon as he stopped paying attention to it the careful balancing act collapsed with a loud clatter. Luckily the din from the kitchen was loud enough to keep Bomi or Jer from coming to determine the status of their fancy cutlery.

“For coming,” Freddie elaborated, tucking a frizzier than normal strand of hair behind his ear as he did so. “I don’t…” he sounded vaguely frustrated, as if something were just out of his grasp and he was trying desperately hard to reach it. “I don’t really understand why Roger wanted you to come,” he settled on finally, though the way he scrunched up his nose as it tripped off of his tongue indicated that it hadn’t come out quite as he had intended it to.

“Believe me, Freddie,” John interjected hurriedly as he paused to take a breath. “Neither do I.”

“Other than that he utterly adores you and think you’re the best bloody thing since…” he trailed off thoughtfully, sucking on his teeth as he did so. “Well, since Brian, I suppose,” he finished with a roll of his eyes and an absent minded gesture of his hand which seemed to say _of course_.

As if John wasn’t just a guy looking for a flatshare on short notice. As if this strange and all encompassing, complicated and yet effortless friendship had been an inevitability and not something he had fallen into with his eyes closed and hands bound; this strange and all encompassing, complicated and yet effortless friendship he was now clutching at with eyes wide open and a grip he hadn’t known he possessed until he had something worth holding onto.

“But thank you for coming. I know it’s a bit awkward and you’d much rather be snuggled up with Veronica—” he paused as if to give John the opportunity to concur.

John hummed noncommittally.

If Freddie was perturbed by his less than enthusiastic response he didn’t let it show, barrelling onwards. “I was so worried he wouldn’t come,” he continued in a low tone, leaning across the table so that John could heat him better. “So very worried,” he asserted, meeting John’s eyes fully. “You understand, dearest,” he said with a half smile and a pat to John’s hand as he withdrew back fully into his chair.

And the problem was that John _did_ understand now. The ease with which Freddie had accepted Roger’s return to himself made sense in the shadows of desperation which lingered in the corners of his eyes and the sharp bite of his teeth into the plushness of his bottom lip.

It had been an open secret — one of many, too many — that this year had been worse than usual for Roger. The vague promise of Christmas had come and gone, followed by New Years, until January and most of February had stretched out in front of them in the form of trip wires that kept them all tangled up in one another, trying so desperately to reach the safety of normality which seemed interminable. The flipside of that, he now realised, was that it had been a worse year than usual for _Freddie_.

Freddie believed Roger to be better because Freddie himself needed Roger to be better.

And that was terrifying.

“Dinner,” Roger announced with the severity of a doctor informing the family of a loved one whether or not the surgery had been a success, and the steadiness of someone who had just downed half a bottle of wine in under fifteen minutes. “Is served!”

He bowed lowly, gesturing for Bomi and Jer to begin bringing in the assortment of dishes they held. Kash, following behind them with a platter of flatbreads, balanced carefully on one foot to nudge at him with the other. Roger stumbled immediately, wine doing his balance no favours. Kash, however, then followed.

“Fuck!” yelped Roger, twisting midair in an attempt to catch the flatbreads before they hit the floor. He was, of course, unsuccessful.

Jer, facing Kash and Roger, covered her face with her hand as her shoulders shook with laughter.

“Could we please,” bitched Freddie, looking over his shoulder as Kash and Roger scrambled to get everything straightened up. “Have _one_ dinner where our food doesn’t end up on the floor? Just one?”

“Says the dickhead who upturned the whole table last year trying to do a pirouette,” Kash snarked, dumping the platter, flatbreads now returned to it looking only slightly worse for wear, on the table and ducking a quick kiss to her father’s cheek when he went to reprimand her for her language. “Love you, Baba!”

Bomi grunted, taking his set next to Freddie. It was a small table, with two mismatched seats shoved in close to the original set for John and Kash.

“If you do not have to pick lint from your teeth,” said Jer sadly, as she took her seat on the other side of Freddie. “Is it really my cooking?”

Roger collapsed lazily into his chair. “Dry food this time though,” he said, snatching up a piece of flatbread which he held aloft with a sarcastic cheer. “We’re improving!”

Bomi’s dry reply was lost to John as Jer leaned around Roger to speak to him. “I am sorry we did not prepare anything for you, John. _Someone_ ,” she said, lifting her voice to be heard over the squabbling of Freddie and Kash who had both reached for the rice at the same time. “Led me to believe that Brian would be coming to dinner and so I made dal instead.”

Roger, sat between the two of them, stuffed half of his flatbread in his mouth in one go. He blinked — and chewed — at them innocently when they both stopped to look at him.

“It’s fine,” John said earnestly. “This is… more than fine,” he continued, looking at the dishes spread out on the table, clustered together and yet still barely leaving enough room for their own plates. It made him think of Christmas at his Nan’s, when everyone brought their own dish and the elbows of his cousins jabbed about as they dove hungrily for the crispiest roast potatoes. There was so much food, and Freddie’s insistence over the tupperware now made complete sense. “Everything looks amazing.”

Jer sighed and shook her head. John got the feeling that no matter what he said she wasn’t going to accept that she had been anything other than an unacceptable host. “There is no meat in anything,” she told him, still leaned over Roger with no regard to his personal space. For his part, Roger seemed utterly unbothered by this and was now eating his remaining flatbread with a little more restraint.

“Uh!” spluttered Roger, flakes of bread stuck to his lips. He swallowed hurriedly, “What? What about my dhansak?”

Jer didn’t so much as look at him, merely giving John an apologetic smile before leaning back into her own chair.

Bomi cleared his throat. Freddie and Kash, leaned backwards still squabbling behind him over the rice that neither of them had ended up serving, settled. John got the distinct impression that if they hadn’t have been separated by Bomi that flying fists would have been involved.

The seating, he realised, much like at his Nan’s Christmas dinners, was definitely carefully planned.

“Ma,” Freddie huffed, batting Kash’s hand from the rice as Bomi gave him a nod. “John’s dinner of choice before this was going to be cheese on toast. I think you’ve successfully bested those grand plans.”

“Oh,” said Jer, pausing in piling a truly ridiculous amount of food onto Roger’s plate for him. “We… I could make cheese on toast?” she asked unsurely.

“Please don’t,” John mumbled with a grimace.

“We’re poor,” Roger reminded her, pushing her hand away as she went to add another helping to his plate.

John nodded, “It wasn’t so much a choice as it was the only thing I have left in the fridge.”

The serving of (dal? Dhansak? John wasn’t sure) redirected from Roger’s plate landed on his, Jer looking horrified. “Freddie!” she scolded, reaching now for the rice that she snatched from Bomi who gave it up without a fight, a resigned sort of forlornness on his face as all of the food in his corner of the table disappeared rapidly. “You know you must call if you need money!”

“‘S’my fault,” Roger interjected before Freddie had the chance to respond, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth and chewing. “Not been working lately. Sick,” he said, swallowing noisily and avoiding everyone’s gaze. “Deaks pitched in on my rent last couple of weeks. Didn’t wanna worry you guys.”

“What?” spluttered Freddie, confusion colouring his features as he looked to Roger first, and then John for an explanation. John ducked his head and focussed intently on scooping the perfect amount of rice onto his fork.

“Oh,” Jer murmured, reaching to cup Roger’s cheek softly.

“We,” said Bomi steadily, his gaze unwavering as it went between John and Roger. “Will decide what worries us.”

“Roger,” Freddie urged lowly, as if everyone at the table couldn’t hear him. “What…?”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Why didn’t you tell m—”

“It’s not a big deal, Fred.”

“It’s fine,” John interjected, the tension growing between Freddie and Roger now palpable. “Rog already paid me back most of it, just haven’t got to the shops yet.”

“How?”

“Been selling shit, haven’t I?” Roger snapped, exasperated. He set his fork down firmly, brow furrowed as he glared across at Freddie.

“I—” Freddie began, cutting himself off when Bomi lay a hand on his shoulder.

“I want that red jacket,” Kash threw out, a glass of wine mysteriously in hand. “The one you’ve got up for twenty quid? I can give you fifteen.”

The annoyance dropped from Roger’s face in an instant as he turned away from Freddie to Kash instead. “The one that’s up for thirty, you mean?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

“Thirty five,” Freddie muttered under his breath.

“Whatever,” Kash dismissed, gesturing wildly with her stolen wine. Bomi, frowning, took it from her. “The one with the dragon on the back.”

“Sure,” Roger agreed easily with a shrug. “Woulda brought it with me if you’d let me know.”

“But then,” said Bomi. He appeared to have taken advantage of their distractions in one another by piling all of the dishes around himself once more. “How would she have conned you into giving it to her for £15?”

Kash took a large, and very smug, bite out of her flatbread which she had piled high with dal.

“Oh, as if he’s going to make her pay a penny,” Freddie huffed, although a small smile now lingered around the corners of his mouth again. “Spoiled brat.”

“Me or him?” Kash asked, wiping at the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

“Both?” offered John quietly.

Roger laughed and shot him a wink.

“Definitely,” said Bomi.

Silence fell over the table for a minute or two as everyone tucked into the meal with earnest, and John had to admit to himself that Brian would definitely have competition when it came to the leftovers Freddie and Roger brought home from these dinners. There was only one dish he didn’t wrangle a serving of, though not for lack of trying.

“Nah,” Roger told him, smacking the back of his hand as he reached for the spoon. “Like, no offence, you’re too white for that shit. You couldn’t handle that ramen the other week, you definitely can’t handle that.”

Kash snorted, happily serving herself a huge helping of that very dish.

“Yeah, alright, so am I.”

“You glow in the dark.”

“Fuck you!”

“Children,” Bomi sighed as Jer gave Roger a rapproaching look.

“Fuck you right back!” Kash shot, sticking her tongue out.

She and Roger grinned at each other.

“The last time I swore at the dinner table,” Freddie muttered down into his plate. “I was made to eat dinner in the kitchen,” he stabbed violently at a piece of potato, sending sauce flying at Bomi who gave a long look at the stain now adorning his cuff before going back to eating his meal without comment. “But no-ooo,” he drawled. “You don’t have _favourites_.”

“Roger,” said Bomi, clearing his throat. “How are your studies going?”

“See!” Freddie whined, pointing between Roger and his father. “Baba didn’t ask me how _my_ studies are going!” he complained across the table to Jer.

“Tragic,” quipped Kash, looking terribly bored.

“You posted a video of you setting your latest review on fire on your ‘story time’,” Bomi replied, seemingly unconcerned with his theatrics. “I think I know how _your_ studies are going.”

“It’s called a story, Baba,” Kash told him with the exaggerated patience of one who has explained this before.

“Hmmm.”

Roger cocked his head and blinked across at Freddie, all wide eyes and faux innocence, “No, Fred’s right. Maybe we haven’t paid enough attention to his studies?”

Freddie had recently been caught in a war of attrition with a tutor who had deemed his work ‘uninspired’. The mere mention of the name ‘ Ethan’ had him spitting nails.

Only Roger had been brave enough to point out that the work in question — a disturbing watercolour portrait titled ‘Nicotine Daydreams’ which depicted Brian wearing a sombrero and sobbing over the corpse of a cartoon hedgehog — had been submitted with a submissive, “What are they going to do? Fail me?”

The answer to that, as it turned out, was yes.

So far, Freddie had received two Ds and the tutor three negative feedback reviews — all, Freddie had told them proudly, from other students.

“Deaky failed his last quiz!” Freddie threw out, his hands flying up to cover his mouth as soon as the words escaped. He looked across the table at John with wide eyes.

An offended sound escaped John’s mouth without his permission.

“I’m sorry!” Freddie squeaked out through his fingers.

“Throwing poor, innocent Deaky under the bus,” Roger tutted, shaking his head. “How could you?”

Bomi and Jer, John reminded himself, were not his parents. He had nothing to worry about.

John spluttered uselessly. “ _Roger_ ,” he rallied, drawing himself up. “Didn—”

“How’s the music going?” Kash interrupted before he could stoop to Freddie and Roger’s level. “Your social’s have been dead as fu… heck.”

All three of them froze.

“Yeah, really good,” John ventured hurriedly.

Freddie nodded enthusiastically, “So good.”

Roger shovelled more food into his mouth with a noncommittal hum.

Bomi, Jer and Kash looked politely unconvinced and John was struck by the sudden thought that he was on the other side now.

In this moment, in this lie, John knew: he was no better than the others.

(“There’s no point me being here if I’m not doing anything half the time,” Roger complained, slumped behind his drums. “I don’t understand why you’d want to practice it all separately, _together_.”

John fiddled about with one of the amps to avoid answering. Freddie had cornered Brian and he in the living room that morning to demand they go along with his plan, but John had little hope of it succeeding.

“I feel there’s something missing,” Freddie insisted just a tad too earnestly from where he leant over the sheet music with Brian. “It’ll be much easier to pick it out when we’re not all being so brilliant at the same time, we just make everything sound too good.”

John just about stopped himself from groaning and looked over at Roger from under his eyelashes. He looked both unimpressed and unconvinced.

“So I had to get out of bed and come all this way just to hear you lot faff about with a song we completed months ago?” Roger asked dully, rapping his knuckles absently against the rim of his snare drum to the beat of the song.

“Well, you are a member of the band,” Brian pointed out, shooting him a smile which went unacknowledged as Roger rolled his eyes. His shoulders drooped as Roger ignored him.

“Not if I’m not playing,” Roger muttered mulishly, dropping his hand from the snare when he caught John watching. “This is fucking stupid.”

“Right!” said Freddie brightly, determinedly ignoring the tension which hung heavy over the room. “I was thinking we could start with Brian—”

“Why don’t I start?” Roger interrupted, waving his sticks in the air for attention as if Freddie would pretend he hadn’t heard him. John had to admit it was a possibility. “I’ve got the solo which might be where your problems are, and then I can fuck off back home while you lot do… whatever this is.”

“Oh, no,” Freddie laughed, missing the way Roger tensed at the sound. “Your playing on this one is perfect, darling. To be honest, I don’t even think you need to rehearse today.”

Brian took one look at Roger and set down the Red Special.

“What the fuck are you on about?” Roger said exasperatedly, looking at Freddie as if he had announced that they were rebranding themselves as nudists. “I fucked up the solo the last time we rehearsed it; you said I sounded like a preschooler drumming with crayons. I’ve been practicing for weeks so we could do it again today.”

Freddie had indeed said that last time, though he looked as if he mightily regretted it now.

John shook his head frantically at Brian as he stepped forward but was ignored.

“To be honest, Rog,” Brian said, a sheepish look on his face. “We thought maybe you could do with a rest from the rehearsing.”

Freddie shot him a glare over his shoulder before turning trepidatiously back to face Roger whose face was now painted with incredulity as he squinted at Brian. John sighed and stood up from the amp he had been preoccupying himself with.

“Why,” said Roger slowly, spreading his hands across his thighs. John could hear his breathing even out, as if he were forcing himself to remain calm which was honestly less than reassuring. Roger had been flying off the handle more often over the past few weeks, but he’d assumed that he was unaware of his own irritability not attempting to manage it. If the anger they’d all been tip toeing around was just the tip of the iceberg, what did that mean Roger was feeling that they weren’t seeing? “Why,” Roger repeated. “Would I need a rest from rehearing? I can bloody do it,” he insisted, curling his heavily plastered fingers around his sticks.

“We know you can do it, Roger,” Brian said, his voice steady despite the waves it was creating. “But maybe you’re just not in the right headspace for it right now.”

Roger’s eyes narrowed as he looked between Freddie and Brian, zeroing in on Brian’s hand which was gripped on Freddie’s arm in the hopes of restraining him.

“What the fuck does that mean,” Roger asked, voice dipping dangerously as he began restlessly tapping his sticks against his legs. Freddie flinched at the movement, his own hands reaching out as if to stop him.

“Rog, your hands look pretty raw, mate,” John murmured softly in an attempt to diffuse to rising tensions.

“That’s not what Brian said,” Roger said, not taking his eyes off of Brian and Freddie.

“That’s what Freddie said,” John replied evenly, trying to communicate silently to Freddie and Brian not to contradict him.

“No,” said Roger, his jaw tight. “Brian said I wasn’t fucking right in the head at the moment.”

Brian shook his head wearily, “That’s not what I said, Rog.”

John rocked back on his heels, closed his eyes, and waited for the explosion.

“Don’t fucking tell me that’s not what you said, Brian,” Roger shot back angrily, shaking his fringe impatiently out of his eyes. “I don’t know what the fuck Freddie’s been tell you behind my back,” Freddie made a wounded noise, physically recoiling into Brian. The harsh line of Roger’s mouth softened for all of a moment before it reformed as he snarled, “But I’m just fucking fine, it’s him that can’t handle that I don’t need _him_.”

“That’s not fair, Roger,” Freddie whispered miserably, arms cradled around himself.

“Right,” said John suddenly, surprising even himself and cutting off Brian who, his mouth twisted with something that looked all too close to revulsion, was gearing up some kind of retort that John could already tell didn’t need to be heard. “Go on then.”

Freddie and Brian froze.

“What?” said Roger, his hands finally still from the frenetic beat they had been striking against his thigh.

“Go on then,” John repeated, gesturing to the drums Roger was sat behind.)

“A-aaawkward,” Kash sing-songed under her breath, jerking as if she’d been kicked under the table.

Bomi cleared his throat guiltily.

Roger snorted and grinned wide at Kash, displaying his mouthful of half chewed food.

“You’re, like, actually the most disgusting person alive,” she told him, face scrunched up with revulsion even as she was half bent under the table to rub at her leg.

“Try living with him,” John said, elbowing him in the ribs. Roger closed his mouth and swallowed, already distracted and giggling along with Freddie who was encouraging him to _do it again, darling — but quick, have a sip of my wine!_

 

Kash gave him a long, appraising look. “I lived with Freddie for ten bloody years,” she bitched. John wasn’t entirely sure whether or not the ‘bloody’ was literal or not. Bomi _had_ mentioned a boxing ring. “You can suffer now.”

That, John considered, was probably fair.

“We should come to your next performance, Freddie,” Jer projected over the lot of them, quietening them all with the barest raise of her voice in that magical way of mother’s seemingly everywhere. She chucked Roger under the chin as she did so and he went back to chewing with his mouth closed without complaint, ducking his head with a blush.

“You said we could not come until your group was perfect,” Bomi said, nodding along. He indicated at John, “Which it is now?”

“Well...” Freddie began, considering this. “I mean, we were always perfect. Look at us!” he struck an exaggerated vogue pose and gestured at Roger who blew him a kiss. “We’re just… more perfect, now.”

Kash went to respond to that, the sharklike eagerness of shithead siblings everywhere gleaming in her eyes, but Freddie reached over his father to flap a hand about her face: “Shut your mouth.”

“I didn’t _say_ anything,” Kash grumbled, swatting his hand away with a sharp rap of his fork against his knuckles.

“You didn’t have to,” Freddie informed her prissily, rubbing at his hand. “Your face said it all.”

“What? That I’m the most beautiful person at this table? A goddess amongst men?”

“That you’re an absolu _—_ ”

“So, we shall come to your next show?” Jer interrupted, a sweet smile on her face as she looked between the two of them as if they hadn’t been all of three seconds from hair pulling.

The bitchy look slid off of Freddie’s face like oil over water. “Definitely, Ma,” he assured her, grinning widely with all of his teeth. “We’ll put on the show of the century for you, absolutely unforgettable!”

“Deaks and I are a _sonic volcano_ ,” Roger told Jer in an aside, his voice unnecessarily sultry as he wiggled his eyebrows ridiculously. At their last gig in early January _—_ the last one before Freddie had pulled the plug and begun answering calls with an apologetic tone and a tall tale about laryngitis _—_ a guy with shitty highlights and an inability to read the ‘fuck off’ vibes that Brian had been shooting him all night had draped himself about Roger babbling on and _fucking_ on about how he and John were a sonic volcano. Whatever that meant.

Regardless, Brian’s mood had been a bloody delight and a half for the next couple of days.

Jer merely looked confused in the face of Roger’s double entendre, but laughed along gamely as he dissolved once more into giggle-snorts.

John made the mistake of meeting Bomi’s gaze for all of a second before ducking back to look at the safety of his plate.

“I’m not coming then,” Kash sniffed at Freddie, grabbing the remainder of Bomi’s wine and downing it. John was pretty sure she’d had the whole glass. “I’ve been trying to forget you exist since I was _born_.”

“You’re an insufferable bitch, you know that?”

“ _Freddie!_ ” Bomi and Jer snapped.

 

* * *

 

 

Somehow, and if pressed he wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to explain how, John survived the remainder of the Bulsara family dinner. He’d returned home more than a little drunk having won two games of charades, his arms stacked high with containers of leftovers, a kiss pressed to his cheek and a promise to return again shortly.

Roger had returned with a demand to come back in exactly two weeks, no excuses, which he’d met with a sheepish grin and a tight hand around John’s wrist.

Sitting on opposite ends of his bed from Veronica at 9am the next morning, Roger sleepily scooting out of the room muttering vaguely violent threats as he went to invade Brian’s bed, John rather wished he’d taken Kash up on her late night offer of a few rounds in the boxing ring.

The door slammed shut behind Roger followed shortly by the sound of Brian’s horrendous bed springs creaking ominously paired with a strangled yelp.

John picked at a piece of lint on his duvet.

He was very aware of the fact that, while he was still dressed in his pyjamas with horrendous post-wine morning breath, Ronnie was dressed for the day. God, she was beautiful.

He began to breathe through his nose.

“So,” Ronnie said finally as he rolled the lint between his fingers. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“What?” spluttered John, wrenching his head up to look at her incredulously. “No! You’re breaking up with me!”

“Since when?”

“We haven’t seen each other since our fight!”

“I’ve been busy! And, like, your tone was weird. I got weird vibes.”

“There were no vibes.”

“I’m getting vibes right now.”

“I thought you were mad with me.”

“I mean,” Ronnie paused, giving a small shrug. “I was. I _am_ ,” she stressed, but her shoulders relaxed. “But it’s been, like, two weeks.”

“Okay?” John said, confused.

“I watched Bridget Jones with Chrissie and... literally four bottles of wine last week, so. I’m mostly over it,” she told him with a small self deprecating grin.

The only time John had ever watched Bridget Jones was immediately after returning home from him mum’s after Christmas. Freddie had bundled him up on the sofa and handed him an entire bottle of vodka before dumping himself and Roger along with him. They’d made their way through the entire series, and the bottle, by the end of the night. John couldn’t exactly _remember_ much of it, but he had vague memories of all three of them complaining bitterly about how horrible men were until the wee hours of the morning.

He had, at one point, informed Freddie and Roger _—_ with the emphatic seriousness that comes from the utterly _wankered_ _—_ that they needed to R. E. S. P. E. C. T. themselves and accept nothing but the best.

And also that he would fight Brian in a Greek restaurant.

The night was a blur. Regardless, he understood the power of Bridget Jones.

“And,” Ronnie continued as he pondered Bridget Jones and the manifold wisdom contained within its cinematic glory. “She said there was weird shit going on I didn’t know about. That _she_ doesn’t really know about.”

John honestly felt as if he was about ten steps behind her in this conversation.

“Unless…” Ronnie trailed off uncertainly, peering at him when no explanation was immediately forthcoming. “Do you want to break up?”

“No!”

“‘Cause like I said, I watched Bridget Jones last week. You don’t get to break up with me in this situation. I definitely get to break up with you.”

“I don’t want to break up,” John said firmly, shaking his head. A strand of hair had fallen from her ponytail and he had to fight the urge to push it behind her ear. He wasn’t sure whether he was allowed. “Why would I want to break up with you?”

“I don’t know!” Ronnie exclaimed, looking exasperated. John tried not to remember how thin the walls were. “Because you’re, like, a whole idiot?”

John looked at her blankly. “As opposed to half an idiot?” he asked.

“Exactly.”

“In this situation,” he informed her, letting the lint fall from his fingers. “I am, at best, 2% of the idiot.”

Ronnie glared at him, first, and then the ball of lint he’d dropped.

“So, what? I’m the other 98%?”

“What?” John said, brow furrowed. “No, you’re not any of the idiot.”

Ronnie threw her hands in the air. John was amused, and heartbreakingly endeared, to see one of Freddie’s trinket bracelets hanging from her wrist.

“What the fuck,” she hissed at him, leaning forward. “Is fucking going on.”

So John told her.

With trembling fingers tracing the links of the bracelet Freddie had given her over the Long Island Tea he’d attempted to foist off on her _—_ the bracelet that had its match in the countless ones that rustled on Roger’s wrists day in and day out, cheap tat that rusted and stained his skin a dull copper tone until Freddie caught sight of it and presented him with his latest creation; and endless cycles of besmirchment and renewal _—_ John told her.

All too aware of the way that sobs and whispers travelled through the walls like a hot knife through butter, like a knife throu _—_

 

 

 

 

All too aware of the way that sobs and whispers travelled through the walls like a hot knife through butter, John whispered it into the air between them and then into the soft skin of her neck as she moved to take him into her arms.

“Fuck,” she said heavily, as he drew back.

He reached out, pushing that fallen strand of hair behind her ear.

His words had dried up, the past few months trailed through the air on the back of dust motes; they danced in the light of the sun and sat heavily in his lungs, the bitter taste of decay coating his tongue as his breaths turned harsh.

“Hey,” Ronnie whispered, the sharp contours of her face turned soft as she watched him. Her gaze was heavy, but under it he felt lighter than he had in months. “Hey, it’s alright. It’s going to be okay. Thank you for telling me.”

“I couldn’t not,” John told her, breath still ragged as he held her eye.

And it was true. He felt as if he’d been dying to tell someone from that first moment he’d connected all the dots, the moment his fingertips had grazed scarred tissue and come away raw as if they’d met razorblades.

Spilling the secret that wasn’t a secret, should _not_ be a secret, was almost euphoric.

He’d spent months walking a fine line through depths he didn’t quite fully understand. If he looked backwards, he had been warned, there lay danger. But if he didn’t look backwards how would he know Roger would remain in safety once they reached the day break?

“I know,” Ronnie murmured, taking him into her arms once more. He breathed her in, let the scent of her perfume wash the ash from his lungs. “I’m sorry.”

“They just say it’s fine now!” John whispered into her neck, holding tighter as she tried to retreat from him. At his resistance she remained close to him, her arms around his torso keeping him from falling apart. “They’re acting like he’s fine and I _—”_

“It’s not,” Veronica said fiercely, pulling back just far enough to look him in the eye once more. “He’s not.”

“But _—_ ”

“You’re right, John.”

And John hadn’t known how much he needed to hear that until it was spoken.

He was _right_.

“Shit,” he said, heaviness settling back over his shoulders.

There was no winning here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [hangs placard over fic that reads I ATEN'T DEAD]
> 
> come yell at me over at @sarinataylor on tumblr ig

**Author's Note:**

> previously 'naturally' back when this was probably only going to be a oneshot whoops


End file.
